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“Same thing that’s on your hand.”
Her right hand covers her mouth the same time she holds out her left for examination. “No, we didn’t.”
“We did.”
“We didn’t!”
“Volume. Jesus.” I grimace, fingertips circling my temples. “If I’m remembering correctly, there’s a piece of paper in here somewhere for proof. But I also don’t remember much of anything after the fountains in front of the Bellagio.”
She simply stands there in that denim jacket and white dress, shaking her head. Ironic that the dress she wore to her stepsister’s bachelorette is now her wedding dress.
I chuckle to myself. What the fuck did we do?
Kennedy scans my hotel room, frantically looking for said paper before finding it facedown and discarded on the floor as if it were one of those takeout menus they slide under your hotel room door and not a document that legally binds us together.
“Oh my God,” she breathes as she looks over our marriage license. “What the hell did you do?”
Wait. What?
“Me?”
“Yes, you! How could you do this, Isaiah?”
Is she fucking with me?
I’m instantly off the bed. “This was your idea. You were the one who was adamant about doing this. I asked you countless times if you were sure.”
She shakes her head, not believing me. “I wouldn’t... I couldn’t do something this reckless. This has you written all over it.”
At that moment, it’s as if the rose-colored glasses get removed.
I’ve never once been mad at Kennedy. Never disliked something she said. Never disagreed with her. But this... her blaming me for last night...
For the first time since I’ve known the girl, I’m fucking pissed at her.
“Do not put this on me, Kennedy. You asked me to do this.”
“No,” she laughs incredulously. “There’s not a chance in hell that I, of all people, asked you to marry me.”
“You begged me to!”
Her eyes are wild. “Then you should’ve told me no!”
“When have I ever been able to say no to you?!”
Her jaw hardens, both our chests heaving in anger. “Take it off.”
“What?”
“The ring.” She gestures to the ring on my left hand, the same one the officiant at the chapel gave us. It’s so cheap, it looks like it’s from a vending machine. “Take that ring off your finger.”
“You take yours off.”
“I told you to first.”
“Well, I’m not going to.” I’ve literally never stood my ground against this girl, but as I said, I’m pissed.
“Fine, I’ll take mine off.” She slips off the cheap plastic band and tucks it into the pocket of the oversized denim jacket I bought her last night. “It doesn’t mean anything anyway.”
