Play Along(15)

My eyes shoot open. Someone is at my side . . . in my bed.

I slowly turn in that direction to find a woman lying on her stomach.

What the fuck?

No, no, no. Regret churns in my gut.

Eight months of waiting for—

Kennedy.

Holy fuck. I recognize that hair curtaining the woman next to me.

Kennedy Kay Auburn.

Kennedy is in my bed.

She growls when the phone rings again, covering her ears with her palms only to showcase her left hand . . . and her left ring finger.

Flashes of last night seep through my foggy memory.

Her pulling me into a chapel.

Me asking her countless times if she was sure about this.

Her being positive this is what she wanted.

Me only hearing the words that Kennedy wanted to marry me.

My last memory was that on the worst day of the year, I had the time of my life.

I suck a sharp inhale in realization because I vaguely remember slipping that ring on her finger, but I could’ve sworn that everything from last night was a fucking dream.

“What?” she asks on a gasp, sitting up.

It takes a moment, her sleepy eyes roaming over me, for her to put the pieces together of where she is.

“Isaiah?” She pushes the hair out of her face, her mascara smudged under her eyes and her lipstick smeared over her cheek.

I’ve never seen perfectly polished Kennedy so unkempt. She looks exactly how I feel.

“Why are you in my room?”

“My room,” I correct.

Kennedy’s eyes move over the hotel room, only for her to realize it’s not hers. Then her attention falls to her clothes she’s still in from last night, Vans and all.

“Oh my God.” She jolts off the bed as if it were on fire. “Oh my God. Did we? Please tell me we didn’t.”

“Did we what?”

“Did we . . .” She gestures between us frantically, her other hand on her forehead. “Did we, you know . . .”

“Kenny,” I draw out her name. “We’re both adults here. You can say the word sex.”

“Please tell me we didn’t do that!”

Those brown eyes are pleading for me to say no, which is a bit of a hit to the ego, if I’m being honest.

“Judging by the fact we’re both still wearing all our clothes and I was far too wasted to get anything going on my end, I’d bet good money that no, we did not have sex.”

She exhales, her eyes closing in relief.

Another blow to the ego.

Still sitting on the bed, I hold up my left hand. “We did, however, get married.”

Her eyes shoot open. “What the hell is that?”

“Same thing that’s on your hand.”

Her right hand covers her mouth the same time she holds out her left for examination. “No, we didn’t.”

“We did.”

“We didn’t!”

“Volume. Jesus.” I grimace, fingertips circling my temples. “If I’m remembering correctly, there’s a piece of paper in here somewhere for proof. But I also don’t remember much of anything after the fountains in front of the Bellagio.”

She simply stands there in that denim jacket and white dress, shaking her head. Ironic that the dress she wore to her stepsister’s bachelorette is now her wedding dress.

I chuckle to myself. What the fuck did we do?

Kennedy scans my hotel room, frantically looking for said paper before finding it facedown and discarded on the floor as if it were one of those takeout menus they slide under your hotel room door and not a document that legally binds us together.

“Oh my God,” she breathes as she looks over our marriage license. “What the hell did you do?”

Wait. What?

“Me?”

“Yes, you! How could you do this, Isaiah?”

Is she fucking with me?

I’m instantly off the bed. “This was your idea. You were the one who was adamant about doing this. I asked you countless times if you were sure.”

She shakes her head, not believing me. “I wouldn’t . . . I couldn’t do something this reckless. This has you written all over it.”

At that moment, it’s as if the rose-colored glasses get removed.

I’ve never once been mad at Kennedy. Never disliked something she said. Never disagreed with her. But this . . . her blaming me for last night . . .

For the first time since I’ve known the girl, I’m fucking pissed at her.

“Do not put this on me, Kennedy. You asked me to do this.”

“No,” she laughs incredulously. “There’s not a chance in hell that I, of all people, asked you to marry me.”

“You begged me to!”

Her eyes are wild. “Then you should’ve told me no!”

“When have I ever been able to say no to you?!”

Her jaw hardens, both our chests heaving in anger. “Take it off.”

“What?”

“The ring.” She gestures to the ring on my left hand, the same one the officiant at the chapel gave us. It’s so cheap, it looks like it’s from a vending machine. “Take that ring off your finger.”

“You take yours off.”

“I told you to first.”