Page 71 of Dr. Fellow

“It was only a matter of time.” She leans her head against my arm. “I’m honestly surprised it took him so long to catch on. Though, I guess nobody ever called him bright Beau.”

A full-blown smile forms on my lips, the dull throb of my hangover replaced by pure satisfaction. Even after our conversation yesterday, I was prepared for her to fight tooth and nail to keep what’s happening between us quiet, especially with our friends. But I wasn’t prepared for this—for her to finally give in to me. And definitely not for the way it makes my heart feel.

Leaning down, I plant a kiss on the top of her head as another loud ping rings through the air.

“Probably the group text,” I comment, though I reach for my phone with a trace of suspicion.

I silenced that thread weeks ago to focus on my board exams, distracted by relentless notifications from the girls about the trip, so realistically, there’s no way that it could be the group text.

Unlocking my phone, I notice that I have a voicemail and three texts from a random phone number with a strange area code. Where the fuck is 702 from? The only area codes I know are 678, 404, and 770—all Atlanta-based numbers.

Even though I’m sure it’s spam, curiosity wins out, and I open the messages.

Congratulations newlyweds!

Thank you for visiting the Burning Love Wedding Chapel. Please remember to pick up your marriage certificate prior to leaving town. If you are unable to stop by, they will be mailed to the address on record in 6-8 weeks.

Both texts were sent at two-thirty this morning, followed by a singular message that just came through.

Did you have a five-star experience? Leave us a review online and receive ten percent off memorabilia.

Heat prickles down my spine, my heart slamming into my chest as I read, and reread, the words. Without listening to the voicemail, I delete it. If I have to hear the words out loud, I might actually vomit.

This can’t be happening—it has to be some bullshit practical joke that our friends thought would be funny. And it would be marginally funny if there weren’t several hours last night that are completely black when I try to recount them.

But there’s no fucking way we would get married . . .

Morgan only just agreed to something more exclusive over slices of pizza after the pool party. I highly doubt that she meant exclusive by order of law, especially when she’s told me multiple times that she has no interest in marriage. And hell, neither do I—it’s the absolute last thing I want to try again.

Right?

Right.

So why is there a small flicker of hope in my pounding brain that this is real?

“Who was it?”

I just blink, then close my eyes again as my mind tries to break through the fog of my hangover to grasp the gravity of the situation.

How the fuck am I going to tell her?

Before I have a chance to figure it out, I feel my phone being pulled from my hand.

“What the . . . you’re joking,” Morgan stammers. Her fingers tremble as she scrolls through the messages, likely retracing my earlier thought process. “This is a joke, right?”

I don’t have an answer to her question, so I reach out. My hand finds her thigh, mirroring her comforting gesture from before. Even if this is the biggest shit show of all time, I want her to know that I’m here—she’s not alone in this.

After a minute, she looks up at me, green eyes darkening like the sky before an incoming summer storm.

“We wouldn’t . . . would we?”

My head shakes shamefully. I know how she feels—the absurdity of the situation is overwhelming. The fragments of the previous night that I can recall are still blurry snippets of laughter, dancing, and too many drinks that mesh into one indistinct memory.

“I don’t know, Morg. I really don’t,” I start, trying to keep my voice steady despite the throbbing in my head and whirlwind of my emotions. “We were drunk. Very drunk. And I don’t remember anything after the club.”

When we left the ridiculous stripper show, we spent a while at a karaoke bar where I drank a vodka with RedBull to gear up for the rest of the night. I remember thinking I should slow down after maintaining a solid buzz all day, but clearly I didn’t listen.

“I don’t either . . . wait.”

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