Page 67 of The Emerson Effect
He raises his chin to meet my eyes, and he looks mortified. “Twila? Did we…uh…did we get married last night?”
I shake my head, the pain there forgotten. “I have no idea. I can’t remember.”
“Me, neither,” he breathes, then shakes his head. “Maybe we just bought them for fun? Like…a joke, or something? We should see if we posted any BingBangs. Maybe this is all just a stunt for…entertainment purposes.”
I nod, gripping the lifeline with both hands, but a sick feeling in my gut tells me this is no joke. Or maybe it’s just the tequila making me feel ill.Devil bitch.
“Do you remember how we got back here?” he asks as he leaves the doorway, presumably to find his phone.
“I don’t remember anything after the VIP section with the bachelorettes,” I reply, following him out.
“Yeah. I don’t either,” he says, getting down on all fours to look under the bed.
I hear my phone pinging with alerts from the living room, so I head in that direction. I spot both our phones on the coffee table, so I call out to Emerson as I pick mine up.
I have several text message notifications from my group chat with the girls, so I open that first.
Joey:Twila! What in the hell happened last night?
Raven:I guess congratulations are in order. Or is it best wishes?
Joey:Raven, that’s not funny.
Joey:Twila, are you okay? Please text us back. We’re getting worried.
Callie:How in the hell did you end up getting married last night?
“Oh, my God,” I breathe just as Emerson joins me in the living room.
“What is it?” he asks, picking up his own phone.
“My friends texted me to ask how I ended up getting married last night? How in the hell do they know when I don’t even fucking know?”
Just as I notice the onslaught of BingBang notifications, Emerson curses under his breath. When he looks over at me, his eyes are filled with empathy and a healthy dose of fear. Turning his phone around, he shows me the screen.
It shows a video posted on BingBang. Emerson and me, dressed in the clothes we’re still wearing, except I have on my shoes and there’s a short veil covering my head. We’re swaying drunkenly at an altar where an Elvis impersonator is having us repeat vows to each other. Then we exchange rings. As Elvis proclaims us husband and wife, a flurry of squeals and cheers explodes, and the camera pans to show the purple-clad bridal party clapping and catcalling.
“That’s it, people,” a voice says. “GreeneHouse is now official. ‘Til death do they part.”
“Oh. My. God,” I repeat with more emphasis before I look over at Emerson. “What did we do?”
“It appears we got married,” he says, his tone flippant. His expression twists into one of contrition before he adds, “Sorry.”
I shake my head and look back down at the phone. “This video, alone, has almost a million views already. And we have no idea how many people have tacked or duoed it by now.”
Dropping my phone to the couch beside me, I leap to my feet as my stomach rolls. Slapping a hand to my mouth, I run for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I retch. After a bit of bile, I’m basically dry-heaving when a pair of gentle hands gather my hair and hold it back for me.
“You…shouldn’t…be in here,” I manage to get out between heaves.
“For better or worse, right?” he asks lightly. When I shoot him a withering look, he grins. “Too soon?”
I start gagging again, and I feel Emerson secure my hair back with a scrunchie from my toiletry bag. The water runs for a few seconds, then a cool, wet washcloth dabs against my neck, forehead, and temples. It feels really good, so I close my eyes and sigh.
When my stomach settles, I flush the toilet and fall back onto my butt with a sigh. Emerson sits down on the bathroom floor in front of me, handing over a glass of water and the wet washcloth he used to make me feel better.
“Don’t worry, Twila,” he says in a comforting tone. “Everything is going to be okay. We’ll figure this out. Together.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
