Marrying My Neighbor

by Roxy Reid

  Hey, it could happen.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” I ask.

  Sean closes his eyes and falls back against the pillow. “We started out here. Went to that concert. There was a casino before that. Then we were talking at a bar. And then you …" He opens his eyes and looks at me.

  “And then I …" I prompt him, motioning for Sean to continue.

  “And then you … sort of kissed me.” He looks deeply uncomfortable.

  I shake my head vigorously. “No. Definitely. I vaguely remember kissing somebody, but it definitely wasn’t you, ‘cause I remember it being really hot. Like grab-my-ass-and-grind-me-on-him-in-public hot. You would never do that.”

  Sean blushes.

  “See, it definitely wasn’t you. You’re blushing just hearing about it!” I say.

  “No … I … er … um …" he swallows. “That’s why I’m … I distinctly remember the … er … ass grabbing.”

  I stare at him in shock as slowly, the rest of that kiss comes back to me.

  Well, fuck.

  I kissed Sean.

  He kissed me back. Like really kissed me back.

  Now he’s flushing as pink as the lipstick mark on his neck. I touch my lips, realizing that that pink smear on his neck probably came from me. If what I remember from last night is anything to go by, he probably really liked my lips on his neck.

  “Do I need to apologize?” Sean asks.

  “No. Do I?” I ask.

  “Fuck no,” he says. He winces and presses the cool water bottle into the side of his head.

  I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Right. Let’s move on to the actual problem. What do you remember next? Did we get married?”

  “I don’t think so. You just wanted to see a Vegas wedding chapel. So we found one and watched someone get married. I think you went to go help the bride pee in her wedding dress, and when you came back, you guys were best friends.”

  I nod. “And then …"

  “And then you had some questions for the wedding officiant. You wanted to know if people had to sign up in advance to get married, or if they could just do it.”

  “And then …"

  His eyes fly to mine. “Oh, fuck.”

  “What?”

  “I think we got married.”

  I stare at Sean. I think of all the hours I spent in school, at work, and on my book. All the times I bit my tongue, all the risks I didn’t take so that I could get people to take me seriously. So that I could rise in my career. I think of all the ways that could come crashing down if people find out I had a quickie Vegas wedding.

  I go to the bathroom and puke my guts out.

  “Maybe you’re remembering wrong,” I say as Sean takes a shower. I already took a shower and helped myself to his suitcase since I refuse to leave this hotel room until we’ve sorted this out.

  I can’t be married. I can’t.

  “I’m not remembering wrong,” Sean says grumpily from the other side of the shower curtain. “Can I have some privacy?”

  “What do you need privacy for? It’s just me.”

  “I gave you privacy,” he says.

  “And look where that got us. We missed fifteen whole minutes of mystery solving.”

  “What mystery? We got drunk, we got married, and we’ll get a divorce. It’ll be a fun story to tell the grandkids.” There’s a beat, and then he pokes his head out of the shower. “Our respective grandkids. Not, like, with each other.”

  “Sean. Focus. If we are married, my career is toast. So we’re not married. Got it? You remembered wrong.”

  Sean snorts. “I’m sure that’ll go over real well in five years when you try to get married to someone else and get charged with bigamy.”

  I groan and sink down to the floor, burying my face in my hands.

  The water shuts off.

  “Towel?” Sean asks.

  “They’re on that rack in the shower,” I say into my hands.

  There’s some rustling, and then the shower curtain is pushed back. I look up, and my mouth goes dry. This time, it’s not from the hangover.

  Here’s the thing. Sean is hot. Seeing him fresh out of the shower, with just a towel wrapped around his waist? It’s almost enough to make me forget we’re just friends. A small, evil part of me wants to reach out and tug the towel off his hips.

  I scramble to my feet and back to the door. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  “Are you wearing my shirt?” he asks.

  I ignore him and shut the door behind me. I start pacing, trying to figure out what to do. When Sean emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, fully dressed, I still don’t have any ideas.

  Sean starts the coffee. Just the smell of it drifting through the room makes me feel a little better.

  “I think we should go to the chapel,” Sean says.

  “Why?” I ask glumly.

  “Because I was thinking about it, and I’m pretty sure I read something about Vegas no longer letting officiants marry people who are drunk. If that’s the case, then I probably am remembering wrong. We probably just bought the rings at the gift shop or something.”

  I stare at him, and then I jump up. “Oh, Sean, I could kiss you.”

  “Please don’t.”

  I grab my dress and purse. “I’m going to go get dressed in my room. I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”

  About an hour later, we have used Sean’s Google Maps history to find our chapel. It’s a little ways off the strip, painted pastel pink with an old theatre-style marquee that currently says, “Now Playing: Shawn and Grace’s Happy Ever After!”

  We both stare up at the sign in awkward silence.

  “Maybe it’s another Sean,” I suggest. “One who spells his name wrong.”

  “Let’s get this over with,” Sean says grimly.

  The chapel itself is locked, but there’s a wing shooting off of the main building that seems to house the chapel’s business office. That’s unlocked, so Sean and I walk in. It looks like a normal office, except for the racks of wedding paraphernalia available for rent. Dresses, tuxes, bouquets, Star Trek costumes—if someone might want to get married in it, they have it.

  A middle-aged white woman with a bad perm pushes her glasses up her nose and stands up from behind an old, heavy desk. “Welcome! How can we help you with your Happy Ever After?”

  Sean mutters something that sounds like kill me now.

  I clear my throat and smile brightly. “Actually, we’re a little worried that you might have already helped us. Last night.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. I pull mine and Sean’s rings out of my purse and cross over to her, offering the rings on my palm.

  “Does your chapel sell these rings?”

  She adjusts her glasses and peers down at the rings. “Yes, we do sell those, but other places sell them, too. We don’t sell anything to anyone who is under the influence. I assume that’s why you don’t remember where you were last night?”

  Sean blows out a sigh of relief. “See, Grace? This is the only chapel we went to, and they don’t serve drunk customers, so we can’t be …" he trails off as he sees the look on the woman’s face.

  She clears her throat. “Did you say Grace? As in Sean and Grace?”

  Sean looks at me. “Yes.”

  “Well, bugger,” the woman says.

  I look at Sean nervously, feeling my alarm rise.

  The woman twists her hands anxiously. “I’m afraid that you did get married here last night. Normally, we don’t do the … well … inebriated, but you were quite insistent.”

  “Of course we were insistent. We were drunk,” Sean says.

  “You bribed the officiant with a hundred thousand dollars, sir. He took the bribe and cheerfully quit this morning.”

  Sean and I stare at the woman in horror. The woman produces a neatly pressed piece of paper from a folder and holds it out to me. I take it with numb hands.

  “There’s your copy of the wedding
certificate. We’ll send the wedding video to the address you provided last night.”

  “Isn’t there something we can do?” I ask, desperate. “We’re not supposed to be married. We’re just friends.”

  “You’re a little more than that now,” the woman says dryly. “You are, of course, welcome to pursue divorce or annulment, based on the recommendations of your lawyer.”

  I’m feeling faint. I feel like my career is flashing before my eyes, right before it does the final dive off a cliff.

  “That’s a little fucked up,” Sean says. “You’re the ones who accepted a bribe to break the law.”

  “You’re the one who bribed someone to break the law,” she says sharply.

  I suddenly have visions of her bringing her story to the press. Nora would literally murder me.

  I grab Sean’s hand and smile brightly. “Thank you so much for clearing that up. We look forward to that wedding video. Have a nice day!”

  I tug a grumbling Sean back out onto the sidewalk.

  “What the hell was that?” Sean asks. “I was trying to fix this.”

  “Anything that draws attention or lands us in the press won’t fix this,” I say. It’s not even noon yet, but it’s already hot outside. I feel a drop of sweat slide down my neck.

  Oh God. I’m married. What am I going to do?

  I’ve never hyperventilated before, but now, I feel like I might.

  Sean must see the panic in my face because he takes the wedding certificate from my hands. He folds it up and sticks it in my purse. Then he puts his hands on my shoulders.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he says reassuringly.

  “Why? Do you have a plan?” I ask.

  “Fuck no,” Sean says. “But, I think breakfast is a good start.”

  4

  Sean

  Don’t blame me for your hangover, sweetheart. You’re the one who wanted to forget it was Valentine’s Day.

  —Sean Bronson, text to Grace Blackwood, February 15th, a year and a half into their friendship

  Back at the hotel, we sit across from each other in the hotel restaurant, eating our overpriced breakfasts. Well, I’m eating. Grace is staring at her eggs like she might run to the bathroom and be sick again. I nudge her mimosa to her.

  “Drink that. You’ll feel better.”

  “Unless mimosas let you time travel to keep from getting fucking married, I highly doubt that,” Grace says.

  I lean back in the face of her anger. “You’re acting like this is my fault.”

  “You’re the one who bribed the officiant!”

  “You’re the one who wanted to go to the chapel!”

  She puts her head in her hand and groans. It’s not a groan of embarrassment or frustration.

  She’s miserable.

  Is it really so bad to be married to me? I think, and then squash the ridiculous thought.

  “Is this really that bad for your career?” I ask. “Everyone makes mistakes. That’s why people go to therapy, right? You’ll be relatable.”

  She shakes her head. “My whole book is about how any relationship can be saved. If I get married and divorced on the same day, it’s like admitting everything I wrote is a lie.”

  “Well, not every relationship can be saved,” I say reasonably.

  “Oh, now you’re the relationship expert,” she snaps. Then she sighs. “I’m sorry, Sean. I’ve just really fucked it up, and I don’t think there’s anything I can do to make it better. The book will bomb. I’ll lose the television special. Hell, I’ll be lucky if my regular clients don’t transfer to a different therapist.” She closes her eyes like she’s trying to keep from crying. “I fucked up so bad, Sean.”

  “Hey. Hey.” I move over to her side of the booth so that I can pull her into a hug. I pat her back frantically. “It’s okay. We’ll think of something, right? What can I do?”

  She glumly pulls away, using a paper napkin to dab at her smudged mascara. “Thanks, Sean, but I don’t think there’s anything we can do. It would be one thing if we got married on purpose. Then we could just tell everyone it was a quirky, young people in love thing. But this …" She shakes her head and pokes at her eggs.

  Something she said gives me an idea, a strange idea, but I owe her. I’m the one who invited her to Vegas. I’m the one who bribed the officiant. I move back to my side of the booth, thinking it over.

  Yeah, I’m sure about this. I take a deep breath. “Then let’s be married for real.”

  Grace chokes on her mimosa. “What?”

  “Let’s tell everyone we got married on purpose. Pretend to be in love with each other. How long until the book takes off and you know about the TV thing?” I ask.

  “If the book takes off, Nora’s hoping it will be within the first six months. Maybe a year. If they do offer me a TV special, it should be within that time-frame.”

  I nod, thinking it through. “Sure. A year. I can do that. I don’t have anything else going on.”

  “Sean,” she says, desperately.

  “That gives your brilliant brain six months to try to figure out how to get us a divorce that doesn’t undo all your work. Or maybe you’ll just be so popular that it won’t matter,” I say, spearing a piece of sausage with my fork.

  Grace stares at me. “You’re serious.”

  I shrug. “You said it was the only way. So let’s do it.”

  “But …" she blinks rapidly. “You’d do that for me?”

  “Of course,” I say. “I’m your friend, and it’s my fault as least as much as it is yours.”

  Grace starts sobbing again.

  I shove napkins at her, alarmed. “What did I say?”

  “You’re just … so … nice,” she sobs.

  “I know a lot of formerly rich men who’d disagree with you,” I say, which makes her laugh and cry at the same time.

  She gets herself under control and wipes her face dry again. “I guess this means we should put the wedding rings back on?”

  “Might as well,” I say. She pulls out the rings and starts to slide hers on her finger, but I stop her. “Let me.”

  I take her hand. I reach over a plate of breakfast food and slide the wedding band onto her finger. She’s officially my fake wife.

  Grace does the same to me.

  I stare at our hands. Somehow it seems more real now.

  Grace takes a shaky breath and raises her mimosa. “To a year of wishing what happened in Vegas could have stayed in Vegas.”

  I laugh and raise my coffee. “To a year of being grateful that it was you and not a cocktail waitress.”

  Grace laughs, and we go back to eating breakfast. This time, Grace actually eats.

  5

  Grace

  Fine, you can throw me a birthday party, BUT ONLY IF YOU DON’T HIT ON MY FRIENDS. I saw the way you looked at Sonali on game night.

  —Grace Blackwood, text to Sean Bronson, two years into their friendship

  We fly back to Boston Saturday night. On Sunday morning, I pull on leggings and a sweatshirt, feed my cat, Bradley, and shuffle over to Sean’s in my slippers. We were too tired to try and figure out the logistics of our fake marriage last night and decided to do it in the morning.

  I let myself in through Sean’s back door and follow my nose to the kitchen. Sean’s standing over a frying pan, staring down at a thick slab of salted ham. He calls it bacon because, apparently, the whole country of Ireland is confused about what bacon is.

  Sean’s already made coffee, so I get my favorite coffee mug out of his cupboard and pour myself a cup. His coffee machine is one of those fancy, shiny things with way too many buttons, but I can’t deny it makes excellent coffee.

  “This is your regular reminder that I will never in my life eat fried tomatoes or black and white pudding,” I say.

  “That was one time! One time, I was feeling homesick, and I will forever be mocked for it by a heartless therapist.”

  Sean flips the ham onto two plates, then cracks the eggs in
to the pan. My side of the pan has one egg, over-easy. His side has two eggs, scrambled. He’s unreasonably proud of his ability to cook both eggs perfectly in the same pan without either of the sides messing each other up. It’s a pretty good metaphor for us, now that I think about it. We work as friends because we stick to our corners and don’t mess each other up. Now we’ve gone and thrown a fake marriage into the mix.

  I sit down at his weirdly shiny metal kitchen table. It’s unnecessarily angular and built into the floor. It does give the space a streamlined, modern feel, but I always bash into it because no one in their right mind would put a kitchen table in this part of the room.

  “I was thinking we should throw a party to celebrate our wedding. It’s what people do after they elope so that their friends don’t get mad at them,” I say.

  “Sounds like it defeats the purpose of eloping,” Sean says. He flips the eggs onto our plates and joins me at the table.

  “It’s the kind of thing we’d do if we’d gotten married on purpose,” I say. I poke the egg with my fork, liking the way the yoke wells up and coats the ham in delicious goodness.

  “No, it’s the kind of thing you’d do if you got married on purpose,” Sean says.

  I give him a look.

  He sighs. “Sure, we can have the party, but won’t that just give people an opportunity to ask questions about our fake marriage? You know, like why we aren’t living together?”

  I set my fork down. “Oh. Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does this mean we have to live together?” I ask.

  Sean shrugs. “We could lie and say we are, but if this is going to last for months, I think it might be easier for you to move in with me. You can have the guest room.” He gets up to get himself more coffee.

  “Hang on,” I say, “Why do I have to move in with you? I’ve got a perfectly nice house, and I’ve got a cat that’s used to my space. You should be the one to move in with me.”

  “My place is bigger,” Sean says.