From there, it really gets fuzzy. I’m not sure what we did, where we went, how I got back to my hotel room, or if we even kissed.
I know one thing is for certain though—there’s no way we did anything sexual. Given my drunken state, I can’t imagine I did anything in a bed other than pass out.
It was a breezy night. I honestly don’t remember having a care in the world at all. Cora wanted to get married, and I just went along with it because it seemed like the thing to do. It was as if I had no decision-making in me.
I pull on the back of my neck in stress. I wish there was some decision-making in me last night. Like, something in my head telling me to stop taking shots. Something maybe telling me to slow down on the excitement of the night. You know, a little angel on my shoulder saying, “Hey, maybe we don’t get married in Vegas to someone you barely know.”
Hell, barely know would be putting it nicely.
Cora is more like an acquaintance. I don’t even know what she does for a job. Does she even have a job? She comes to the school for lunch a lot, so part of me believes that she’s not employed. But she does have her own place, so she has to have money somehow.
Maybe I didn’t snoop enough. Is there a computer around here?
Knock. Knock.
I pause, my eyes snapping to the door. Is that her?
You’d think if it was her, she’d just walk into her own apartment. Then again, if she gave me her key . . .
With nerves ricocheting through me, I walk to the front door and on a deep breath, I open it.
Light grey eyes meet mine as a soft voice says, “Hi.”
There she is, dressed in leggings and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt . . . my wife.
I clear my throat. “Hi.”
Nervously, she holds out her arms and says, “Honey, I’m home.”
It’s the perfect icebreaker for this awkward tension between us. I chuckle and take her suitcase from her. I wheel it into the apartment as she walks in behind me, shutting the door quietly.
When I turn around, I see her standing nervously in the entryway, and I realize just how awkward this all is. I’m in her apartment—her freaking home—moved in, which I’m sure she doesn’t quite comprehend yet, and we’re married. Not just married, but, as of a few hours ago, living together.
“Safe flight?” I ask, unsure of what to really say to her.
“I’m alive, so I guess so,” she answers as she sets down her bag and walks farther into the apartment. “Is that . . . pizza?”
“I wasn’t sure if you were going to be hungry when you got back.”
“I’m starving. I barely had—” She pauses, and as if something turns on in her brain, her eyes find mine and her hands land on her hips. “What’s going on here, Pike?”
“What do you mean?” I ask innocently. Because if you’re an outsider looking in, this might not look super great for me.
Married while drunk.
Moved into apartment.
（Snooped）
And doting husband with dinner in the oven when wifey comes home.
If you told me forty-eight hours ago that I’d go anywhere near Cora, and that this is the man I would be, I would tell you that you were off your nob. Off limits. Content being single.
Instead of getting into it in the entryway of her apartment, I say, “Why don’t you have a seat and we can eat and talk.”
She doesn’t move right away, but instead just stares at me. I can see it in her eyes, the disbelief, the wondering if this is an alternate reality she walked into, and frankly, it very well might be.
I never saw myself as a married man, ever, but at this point, I would rather be married to Cora—the wild card, than Iris—the disenchanted people pleaser. And it seems as if I have no choice to be single, so here I am.
Finally, she takes a step toward the kitchen and mutters, “Only because the pizza smells good.”
Look at me being a good husband already, feeding my wife after a wearying day of travel.
I meet her in the kitchen, and since I already snooped around and figured out where everything was, I gather us plates while she takes the pizza out of the oven and brings it to the table, where she sets it on a trivet.
From over the island that separates the kitchen from the dining area, I say, “We only have water to drink. Hope that’s okay.”
When she faces me, I’m greeted with a crooked eyebrow. “We only have water?”
I smirk. “Yeah. We.”
Her eyes narrow and she says, “I only have water and, yes, that’s fine.”