“After the SkyJump, we said we were gonna get hitched at this crappy little chapel we walked by.”
“Who dared who?”
“Who cares?” Tenley snaps. “She said she and Carter left because there was a wait, but you and I refused to budge.”
“So she doesn’t know if we actually did it,” I reply, but more memories start pushing into the forefront of my brain. The dream I had… the vows. The goofy guy in a priest’s costume… was it not a costume?
Tenley sighs and rubs her forehead. “I remember doing it. Vaguely. But I mean there would be paperwork, right?”
“Yeah. If it was legal. But even if we did it,” I start, my brain spinning, “it’s not legally binding if the people are so drunk they don’t remember it. That’s on the chapel, not us, so it wouldn’t be valid. But I doubt we even did it. I mean, we hate each other.”
“We do. A lot,” Tenley agrees, but I see a glint of skepticism in her eyes. She isn’t sure we would let that hate stop us. “And I wouldn’t dare you into something that would ruin my life.”
"Right, and I wouldn't dare you into something that would ruin mine."
We stare at each other. She looks nervous. Panicked. Sick. All the things I currently feel.
“I’ll call a lawyer. Just in case,” I tell her. “They can do a document search and make sure nothing was filed.”
“And if it was?”
“They’ll make it go away. We were drunk.”
“Okay.”
She starts to back away, turning towards the door. She pauses as she pulls it open and looks at me over her shoulder. “It probably didn’t really happen. We are not that stupid.”
“Well look at that. We agree on something.”
Chapter 1
Tenley
“How can you be so stupid?”
I drop my head back against the headrest and close my eyes, blocking out the hilly scenery as we drive through Laurel Canyon toward West Hollywood. “I don’t know.”
“Mom and Dad are going to be devastated,” Tate says.
"No, they won't because we're not telling them. Ever. This will get dealt with by a lawyer," I promise my brother. "Nash already has one. She looked into this back in the fall. We'll just get them on board again and get this sorted."
“Who marries a guy they hate?” Mallory questions from the back seat, where she’s sitting next to my nephew Dylan. “I mean, you two have never said a nice word to each other. Ever.”
“I was too drunk to remember why I did it,” I confess.
“Yeah Mom and Dad will be thrilled,” Tate mutters as he pauses at a red light. “They already got denied the birth of their first grandchild because I fucked up and now they won’t get to be at your wedding.”
“My first wedding. Starter marriage. Doesn’t count. And like I said, they will not find out about this." I say that last sentence very slowly, enunciating every word like it's a threat because it is. "Don't tell them Tate or I swear to God you will knock Nash off the top of my most hated list."
“I’m not telling them anything,” Tate promises and continues to drive. “I have playoffs to focus on. I do not need to drop this bomb on the family.”
We’re silent the rest of the way to the apartment that I share with my cousin Liv. I share the apartment in theory now more than in actuality because Liv spends most of her days and nights at Crew’s house in Laurel Canyon. It was there, tonight, as a bunch of us gathered to watch hockey to see which other teams would make it into the playoffs, that we found my marriage certificate.
It fell out of a sweater I haven’t worn since my trip to Vegas with the L.A. Quake hockey team six months ago. Tate, my one and only sibling, plays for the Quake, with the idiot I married, Nash Westwood. Nash and his twin brother Crew are the only children of one of the most famous, now-retired hockey players on the planet, Avery Westwood. He broke just about every record there was in the league. Avery also played with my dad, Jordan Garrison, who left a hell of a legacy for Tate to follow too. In reality, being the second generation of hockey greats, Nash and I should have a lot in common, but we don’t. He’s nothing like me. The only thing we have in common is that we dislike each other.
And we’re married. To each other. Allegedly. According to the crumpled paper from a Vegas chapel.
Tate pulls to a stop in front of my building and I swivel toward the back as I unclip my seatbelt. I reach back and hold Dylan’s chin between my thumb and forefinger. “You be a good little bear. I will see you next week when Daddy starts playoffs.”
