Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Hiccup.
“’Sides,” he slurred. “I can afford it.”
He could afford it? He could afford a forty-thousand-dollar ring?
I was too drunk to ask questions and giddy at the sight of a giant rock on my finger. I’d never worn jewelry and this seemed like an ostentatious way to start, but drunk people make horrible decisions when they don’t take anything seriously…
“We can’t be married. Oh my god, we did not get married.”
“I would normally agree with you, but…” He holds up his hand then reaches for my arm to hold up mine.
“What do we do?”
Ashley—my husband—tries to sit up in bed but gets dizzy and lies back down.
“First thing we should do is sup. I need something to soak up this alcohol. Chocolate milk, maybe.” He groans. “Then…I don’t know, just don’t panic. It’s not a big deal.”
Not a big deal. Not a big deal?!
Is he insane?
“Ashley, the cost of this ring alone could feed a third world country—or pay for four years of my college education. Or…or…I don’t know, but what’s it doing on my finger! Did we rob a bank? How can you say this is not a big deal?”
He puts a hand over his forehead. “I just meant—we’ll figure it out. There’s a solution to everything. Let’s just…” His other hand makes a ‘Keep it down’ motion, and I take a slow, measured breath to calm myself—the way I do after a track meet when I need to lower my heart rate.
Typically I walk around the track, but in this room, there’s nowhere to go.
“The good news is, we did it together, so it’s not a fuckup you have to go at alone.”
Why doesn’t he sound freaked out?
It’s almost like…
He isn’t upset.
Does he not care?
He’s married—to me.
We’re twenty-two and we’re married and we’re in college, why isn’t he FREAKING OUT ABOUT IT.
How is he so calm? Just lying there with an arm slung over his eyes to block out the sun streaming through the giant, panoramic windows.
“Were you even that drunk last night?”
I eye him accusingly, all calm, cool, and collected on his side of the bed.
He moves his arm to stare over at me. “There are a million ways to commit to you, Georgie. I think getting you pissed and married is a bit extreme, eh?”
“Commit to me?”
“Date you.” He covers his face and mumbles, “Whatever.”
Suddenly, his phone begins buzzing on the nightstand, the vibration so intense the cell starts a merry hop across its surface.
Ashley grapples for it. “Shite. It’s my dad. He almost never calls.” His finger hits the green button to accept it. “Hello, Dad.”
The greeting is followed by a long silence.
“Um. Yes, I’m in Las Vegas. Still working through the details of the transaction.” Pause. “I don’t know, my trust fund maybe? It’s mine to do with what I wish.” Pause. “Yes, Dad, I realize that. No, I’m not being purposefully obtuse.” More silence. “Why did you tell Mum about it before you talked to me? There’s no need for her to be hysterical.” Long pause. “No, I’m not being purposefully obstinate.”
Ashley glances over at me.
“I’ll sort it out and call you back.” Pause. “Yes, I promise, and no, I’ve not done anything illegal.” He rolls his eyes at that. “No, I am not being blackmailed.”
He rolls his eyes at that, too.
“Yes, Dad.” There’s another long stretch of silence. “I’ll try, maybe once this semester is over.” Pause. “Okay.” He nods. “Yes.” Another nod. “Give my love to Mum.”
The call ends, and he sits on the bed next to me with the cell in his hand before tossing it on the bed covers and flopping back onto the mattress.
“Well…my parents saw the bank notification for the rings. Not going to be able to hide it from them.”
I bury my face in the pillows to wallow. “Oh my god. They are going to hate me!”
“They’re not going to hate you. This isn’t your fault.”
“I’m the American girl who married you and ruined your life!”
Beside me, I hear his deep chuckle as his hand goes to my back. “First of all, you didn’t ruin anyone’s life—I was there too, remember.” He laughs again. “Actually, neither of us remember.”
I peek at him. “What’s the second thing?”
“We should order food. No good can come from discussing this if we’re hungover and hungry.” He reaches for the hotel phone, punching the room service button and waiting. “Hi, we’d like to order breakfast.” He nods at me, whispering, “Do you just want the same thing you had yesterday or were you craving something different…Mrs. Dryden-Jones.”
“Oh my god, do not call me that.” My nervous laughter is loud. I’m surprised he has the energy to make jokes—at least my parents will never find out. They don’t have access to my piddly bank account, and if they did it wouldn’t matter because it’s practically empty. “Order me whatever you want.”