Page 66 of The Emerson Effect
“I love you guys,” slurs a woman with a sash that reads, “I bring the bad decisions.”
“Thanks. We love you, too,” Twila says, smiling warmly at her.
“Can we take some selfies?” the bride asks, and Twila and I agree.
The six of them crowd around us, each of them snapping shots and gushing about their luck at finding us out in the wild. They invite us to a roped off VIP section to hang out with them, and when I look at Twila, she shrugs before nodding in agreement. Champagne flows as the night wears on, and though some part of my brain warns against mixing it with the tequila already buzzing through my system, the bachelorettes won’t take no for an answer.
I have no idea how much Twila or I drink of the bubbly. Our glasses are refilled as soon as we empty them. Everyone is laughing and having a great time, and at some point, I look over at Twila and freeze.
She’s wearing the bride’s sash, as well as her veil. She sashays back and forth across the space, her white dress and shoes making her look like the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. I stare at her in awe as my heart beats faster than it should.
God damn, she’s going to make some lucky guy so fucking happy one day.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Twila
I feel like death, and my mouth tastes like a dumpster fire from hell.Jesus.That devil bitch tequila got me, again.
I groan as I roll onto my side. I pause when I find Emerson in bed beside me, still wearing what he had on last night, right down to his socks and shoes. Moving slowly as not to upset the tiny monkey wielding the sledgehammer in my head, I look down at myself. I’m still wearing my white dress, but my feet are bare.
At least I had enough sense to kick them off when we got back to the room.
But, God, how did we get back here? And what happened after we left the club?
The last thing I can remember is hanging in the VIP area with that bachelorette party. Dancing. Drinking champagne. Everything after that is a complete blank.
I force myself to hold in the groan of pain as I sit up. I don’t want to wake Emerson. At least, not yet.
“What the…?” I whisper as I lean forward, and a slip of fabric tightens around my neck.
Reaching up, I tug at it. It’s looped around my throat, so I pull it over my head and stretch it out, reading the word “Bride,” screen printed across it. It’s the bride’s sash from last night. Why am I wearing it?
Huffing out a breath, I drop it to the floor and carefully climb to my feet. My head feels like it might fall off at any moment. I need some aspirin. And a couple of gallons of water.
But first, I need to brush my teeth. If my mouth tastes this bad, I don’t even want to know what my breath must smell like.
I take stock of my surroundings and realize we’d gone to bed in my room. Perfect. I don’t have to walk so far to get to my toothbrush. I shuffle into the bathroom and load up the brush with enough toothpaste to clean five people’s mouths. As I start scrubbing my teeth, I glance up at my reflection for the first time and nearly scare myself to death.
“Oh, shit,” I mumble around a mouthful of toothpaste suds.
My eye makeup has smeared, giving me what looks like melted, bloodshot raccoon eyes. My hair is a rat’s nest, and there are deeply embedded sleep lines across my right cheek. I continue brushing as I lift a hand to finger-comb my hair into some semblance of normalcy.
Something glints under the bathroom lights, and I freeze. Lowering my hand from my hair, I hold it out in front of me as tequila and champagne threaten to bubble up from my gut.
There, on the ring finger of my left hand, is a simple platinum band.
The toothbrush hanging from my mouth clatters into the sink as I shout, “What the fuck!?!”
Pain explodes in my temple, but I ignore it as I continue to stare at that ring. Dread pools in my stomach, and I start to tremble.
Emerson shouts something unintelligible, then there’s a loud thump and a grunt as if he fell from the bed. A few seconds later, he’s in the bathroom’s doorway, leaning against the jamb and holding his head like it might fall off.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” he slurs, and I can’t tell if he’s still drunk or just groggy.
I slowly turn to face him, my arm still in the air. Flipping my hand around to show him the back, I demand, “What in the hell did wedolast night?”
He stares at the appendage in confusion for two beats, and the second his eyes focus on the ring on my finger, his eyes widen. He whips his own hand up, revealing a platinum band on his finger. His is wider and not quite as dainty as mine, but there’s no denying it––the two are a matching set.
