Page 53 of Hidden Echoes

I freeze, my face going pale as the reality of it all sinks in. A flower. Mia near my groin. And a freaking Hello Kitty on my ribs?

“Holy shit,” I mutter, looking at her in disbelief. “You really did that?”

She shrugs, not even trying to hide her amusement. “You were the one who asked for it. You said I was ‘the best artist you’d ever met,’ and that you wanted to make a statement. You didn’t really give me much choice, to be honest.”

I stare at her in disbelief, my brain desperately trying to put the pieces together. I don’t remember any of that. I don’t even remember walking into a chapel, let alone exchanging vows with Mia.

I run my hand through my hair, trying to grasp the weight of her words. “I was too drunk. Hell, I didn’t even know what I was doing. How could you let me do this?”

She shrugs again, like it’s no big deal. “It was your choice. You were the one who said it.” She hesitates for a moment, then adds quietly, “I thought you wanted me. You told me you did, remember?”

A heavy silence fills the room, and I feel the weight of her words sink deep into my chest. “Fuck.”

“You said that was the only way you could be mine,” she answers, the words coming so easily, like she’s said them a hundred times before. “And you told me I was too young to marry a forty-something guy, and maybe I should just marry you instead.”

What the fuck?

I’ve gotten drunk plenty of times and ended up making questionable decisions, but marrying her? That was a whole new level of messed up. I mean, I thought I’d just get drunk and do the usual, but somehow, she pulled off the impossible—getting me so far gone that I actually gotmarried.

I feel something shift under the covers and glance down.

My eyes lock on a tuxedo cat—of course, there’s a cat now. In my apartment. In my fucking life.

“Figaro’s staring at us like that because he’s hungry,” Mia comments, completely unfazed by the absurdity of the situation.

“Can you explain to me why we have a cat?” I ask, not even sure if I want to know the answer.

“Well, I saw him right after we left the chapel,” Mia says, smiling fondly at the cat. “And he reminded me of the cat from Pinocchio. You said I could take him home and make him our first child. So... here he is.”

I will never drink again.

“Fuck!” I bury my head in my pillow, letting out a frustrated groan. This day couldn’t possibly get any weirder.

But as I lie there, trying to hold onto whatever semblance of sanity I have left, the pounding in my head intensifies. Reality sets in, and it hits me like a freight train: I’m married. Married. To Mia. With a fucking cat. I can’t even process it.

“I... I need water,” I mumble, dragging myself out of bed, trying to ignore the weight of my hangover pressing down on me.

“Want me to get it for you?” Mia asks, her voice sweet, almost comforting, as if nothing is wrong—like we aren’t in the middle of a complete disaster.

“No, I’ll... get it.” I manage to stand, though every step feels like I’m wading through concrete. As I walk into the kitchen, I pass the tuxedoed cat—Figaro—who, apparently, is now a permanent fixture in my life. My first child.

Shit. What was I thinking?

I fill the glass with water, trying to clear my head. Trying to make sense of all this.

I find a wedding certificate on the kitchen

The paper is creased, like someone’s been gripping it too hard, folding and unfolding it in their hands. But the embossed seal at the bottom—County of Los Angeles—is solid, unshakable. The words at the top hit like a punch to the gut.

"Certificate of Marriage."

My name stares back at me in cold, official print.

And at the bottom, in black ink, our signatures. Mine. Hers. A goddamn confirmation that this isn’t just some drunken fever dream—it’s real. I drag a hand down my face, heart pounding.

“Fuck.”

Married to Mia. A cat in the living room. Everything is wrong, but it also feels... I don’t know, real in a way that terrifies me.

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