Mother . . .
For the first time in my life, I can’t think of an appropriate exclamation. Not a curse in existence is powerful enough to fit this situation. Did I sneak out of the bar with her, hijack the limo, and come back here? That sounds like something I could pull off.
Did Kate . . . my stomach twists . . . did Kate see us here?
Fucking God Almighty.
My heart picks up even more speed, and I think I may actually be having a heart attack. Is thirty-two too young to have a heart attack? I hope it’s not.
Because she’s never going to forgive me.
Not this time. All my get-out-of-jail-free cards are used up. I run through every kiss-ass scenario I can think of—every groveling method known to man.
And I discount every single one.
No flower or gift or grand gesture is going to fix this. Hallmark doesn’t make an I’M SORRY I NAILED ANOTHER WOMAN, THINKING IT WAS YOU card. Even if I explain . . . Kate will never move past it. Never get over it. Never look or feel about me the same way she did yesterday.
And I don’t blame her.
I close my eyes and drop my head into my hands.
She deserves more than this—so much more. Kate deserves someone better than a guy who’s going to punch a hole in her soul every two years or so.
Better than me.
“Drew, are you all right? Should I get someone?”
Before I can stutter the questions I don’t want to know the answers to, the bathroom door opens. And Billy Warren sticks his head in. His eyes drift from me, to Lily, and back to me. “Everything okay in here?”
“No,” she answers. “I think Drew’s really sick, boo-boo.”
Sick.
That’s precisely what I am.
There’s something wrong with me. I am messed-up in the head. You know it—you probably realized it a long time ago. I keep—
Wait.
Did she just call him boo-boo?
Warren walks into the bathroom, stops next to Lily, and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You gotta puke, man? You should—you’ll feel better. I told you not to drink that shit last night.”
I gaze at Warren’s face, trying to remember—to figure out. A tiny flicker of hope sparks in my chest. “Did . . . did you two hook up last night?”
And Douche Bag pisses all over my little flame of hope. “No, we didn’t hook up.”
Fuck.
But then Shower Girl holds out her left hand and adds giddily, “We got married!”
My head snaps up—and the quick movement makes the pounding return with a sharp vengeance.
Warren straightens and puts an arm around her shoulders—both of them wearing huge, matching grins.
I point between them. “You two . . . you got married?”
He nods. “I figured if Vegas was a good enough place for my cousin to tie the knot, it’s good enough for me.” His gaze shifts to Lily adoringly. “When you find someone this amazing—when you know it’s the real thing—you don’t let it pass you by.”
I squint. “Married?”
Lily nods enthusiastically. “At the Drive-Through Wedding Chapel. We took some great pictures. And now I’m Mrs. Billy Warren.”
Nope, still can’t wrap my head around it. “Married? Really?”
Warren’s expression goes from sappy to annoyed. “Yeah, Long Duck Fuckin’ Dong—married. What’s your problem?”
It finally sinks in. Donkey Dick married Shower Girl. But more important:
I. Didn’t. Screw her.
Cue the chorus of angels. Ahhh-le-luia, ahhh-le-luia, alleluia, alleluia, ah-leee-luia . . .
I didn’t mess up. I didn’t betray Kate or ruin our son’s life or destroy everything we have. Overcome with emotion, I may actually weep with relief.
But I don’t cry. I do something much, much worse. I stand up and hug Billy Warren. “I love you, man.”
Yes, the stress of the last few minutes has finally driven me over the edge. We embrace for a second before he pushes me back, holds me at arm’s length, and looks at me with confused brown eyes.
“Dude,” he utters disgustedly.
I come to my senses. And shake my muddled head. “Sorry, I just . . . I’m so happy for you.”
Translation? I’m over-fucking-joyed for me. And that he married a woman who looks freakishly identical to Kate?
Nope—don’t even care.
I give his back a congratulatory smack. “You and . . .” I . . . pat her head. “Both of you. Congratulations.”
Then I realize I still have no idea where the hell Kate is. I hook my thumb toward the door. “I gotta go.”
As fast as my feet can carry me, I dash out the door.
Stepping out of the bedroom into the living area feels similar to when Dorothy stepped out of her dilapidated house into Oz. Everything is too bright, too colorful . . . too loud.
Matthew and Delores sit close together on the couch, under a beige blanket, sharing a bowl of cereal and watching Gilligan’s Island on TV. Matthew chuckles at the television before Dee feeds him a scoop of Froot Loops.
As I step into the room, Matthew’s attention turns to me. “You’re alive.”
Delores is disappointed. “Damn it. I was hoping we’d have to get your stomach pumped.”
Matthew tugs her strawberry-blond ponytail and tells her firmly, “I told you to be nice from now on. Cut that shit out.”
When he turns back to me, Delores sticks her tongue out at him.
The ecstatic adrenaline rush from learning I did not actually put my dick in a pu**y that wasn’t Kate’s is starting to wear off. My head and stomach resume the nauseating symphony of a mighty hangover.
For the first time in my life, I can’t think of an appropriate exclamation. Not a curse in existence is powerful enough to fit this situation. Did I sneak out of the bar with her, hijack the limo, and come back here? That sounds like something I could pull off.
Did Kate . . . my stomach twists . . . did Kate see us here?
Fucking God Almighty.
My heart picks up even more speed, and I think I may actually be having a heart attack. Is thirty-two too young to have a heart attack? I hope it’s not.
Because she’s never going to forgive me.
Not this time. All my get-out-of-jail-free cards are used up. I run through every kiss-ass scenario I can think of—every groveling method known to man.
And I discount every single one.
No flower or gift or grand gesture is going to fix this. Hallmark doesn’t make an I’M SORRY I NAILED ANOTHER WOMAN, THINKING IT WAS YOU card. Even if I explain . . . Kate will never move past it. Never get over it. Never look or feel about me the same way she did yesterday.
And I don’t blame her.
I close my eyes and drop my head into my hands.
She deserves more than this—so much more. Kate deserves someone better than a guy who’s going to punch a hole in her soul every two years or so.
Better than me.
“Drew, are you all right? Should I get someone?”
Before I can stutter the questions I don’t want to know the answers to, the bathroom door opens. And Billy Warren sticks his head in. His eyes drift from me, to Lily, and back to me. “Everything okay in here?”
“No,” she answers. “I think Drew’s really sick, boo-boo.”
Sick.
That’s precisely what I am.
There’s something wrong with me. I am messed-up in the head. You know it—you probably realized it a long time ago. I keep—
Wait.
Did she just call him boo-boo?
Warren walks into the bathroom, stops next to Lily, and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You gotta puke, man? You should—you’ll feel better. I told you not to drink that shit last night.”
I gaze at Warren’s face, trying to remember—to figure out. A tiny flicker of hope sparks in my chest. “Did . . . did you two hook up last night?”
And Douche Bag pisses all over my little flame of hope. “No, we didn’t hook up.”
Fuck.
But then Shower Girl holds out her left hand and adds giddily, “We got married!”
My head snaps up—and the quick movement makes the pounding return with a sharp vengeance.
Warren straightens and puts an arm around her shoulders—both of them wearing huge, matching grins.
I point between them. “You two . . . you got married?”
He nods. “I figured if Vegas was a good enough place for my cousin to tie the knot, it’s good enough for me.” His gaze shifts to Lily adoringly. “When you find someone this amazing—when you know it’s the real thing—you don’t let it pass you by.”
I squint. “Married?”
Lily nods enthusiastically. “At the Drive-Through Wedding Chapel. We took some great pictures. And now I’m Mrs. Billy Warren.”
Nope, still can’t wrap my head around it. “Married? Really?”
Warren’s expression goes from sappy to annoyed. “Yeah, Long Duck Fuckin’ Dong—married. What’s your problem?”
It finally sinks in. Donkey Dick married Shower Girl. But more important:
I. Didn’t. Screw her.
Cue the chorus of angels. Ahhh-le-luia, ahhh-le-luia, alleluia, alleluia, ah-leee-luia . . .
I didn’t mess up. I didn’t betray Kate or ruin our son’s life or destroy everything we have. Overcome with emotion, I may actually weep with relief.
But I don’t cry. I do something much, much worse. I stand up and hug Billy Warren. “I love you, man.”
Yes, the stress of the last few minutes has finally driven me over the edge. We embrace for a second before he pushes me back, holds me at arm’s length, and looks at me with confused brown eyes.
“Dude,” he utters disgustedly.
I come to my senses. And shake my muddled head. “Sorry, I just . . . I’m so happy for you.”
Translation? I’m over-fucking-joyed for me. And that he married a woman who looks freakishly identical to Kate?
Nope—don’t even care.
I give his back a congratulatory smack. “You and . . .” I . . . pat her head. “Both of you. Congratulations.”
Then I realize I still have no idea where the hell Kate is. I hook my thumb toward the door. “I gotta go.”
As fast as my feet can carry me, I dash out the door.
Stepping out of the bedroom into the living area feels similar to when Dorothy stepped out of her dilapidated house into Oz. Everything is too bright, too colorful . . . too loud.
Matthew and Delores sit close together on the couch, under a beige blanket, sharing a bowl of cereal and watching Gilligan’s Island on TV. Matthew chuckles at the television before Dee feeds him a scoop of Froot Loops.
As I step into the room, Matthew’s attention turns to me. “You’re alive.”
Delores is disappointed. “Damn it. I was hoping we’d have to get your stomach pumped.”
Matthew tugs her strawberry-blond ponytail and tells her firmly, “I told you to be nice from now on. Cut that shit out.”
When he turns back to me, Delores sticks her tongue out at him.
The ecstatic adrenaline rush from learning I did not actually put my dick in a pu**y that wasn’t Kate’s is starting to wear off. My head and stomach resume the nauseating symphony of a mighty hangover.
