One Too Many: A Riley Girls Romance

by McGee, Kayti

  “Then you never knew me at all,” I say, and start to sweep grandly back down the aisle. Then I think of something and turn back. “Also, since I’m pretty sure have to give the ring back, I’m keeping the honeymoon. And the apartment. You can have the cat, though, I never liked that little fucker.”

  “But it was your cat!” he shouts from behind me, but his parents are approaching so this feels like a nice note to be leaving on. Father Paddy is quick on my heels.

  “I’ll expect to see you in confession soon for this little stunt, Bridget.”

  “Give me a week or two, Father, I don’t see myself truly repenting this move for a while.”

  “Jesus wept,” he says, but do you know who isn’t weeping? Me. I’m not. I’ve got a red dress to put on, Jameson to drink, and a whole new life to figure out.

  Three

  The Second Wedding

  Holy forking shirtballs, the DJ is a ginger.

  “I’m glad you got the memo,” I tell him, leaning over the booth in an attempt to figure out just how bad the music is going to be this evening. Also maybe just a little bit to see what he smells like.

  “What memo?” Wow, he’s hot. His hair is buzzed on the sides and curly on top and he looks kind of mean so I can already tell we’re going to be friends.

  “That we’re doing red tonight, obviously.” I gesture from his head to my dress.

  “Oh. I heard something went down at the ceremony and thought you might have meant that.” He grins at me and his whole face softens into pure sunshine which everyone knows you shouldn’t look directly at. I mean, I do it anyways, but I do know better.

  “The ceremony was pretty spectacular.” Since I changed out of my white dress, he clearly doesn’t know I was supposed to be the bride. Cool. “Anyways, wanna go get drinks?”

  “I’m supposed to be working,” but I can tell he’s tempted. I wave my sister Maggie over and she immediately takes control of the equipment. That girl has never met a playlist she can’t destroy. Now it’s a real party. He steps out from behind the booth and I link my arm through his.

  It’s fresh laundry, his smell, and that’s probably why my heart stutters a little. I’m really into laundry. Doesn’t even feel like a task to me. All that warmth and softness and routine and oh my god my chores and my sex life are on equal footing. I tighten my arm around his just a little and assess the possibilities. He’s singing along to the music and hitting all the high notes. His voice is really good. He has a strong nose, which I like, and big dimples like Sierra’s when he turns and catches me staring.

  My sex life potential just got one hell of an upgrade.

  I pointedly ignore anyone who tries to make eye contact with me on our way to the bar. Tonight, I will not be questioned about my inappropriate decisions. My cousin has apparently sent Dave over from There In Spirits to bartend. That’s fun, I was really hoping for his particular brand of passive judgement tonight. Not.

  “We should do shots,” I tell my new friend.

  “Should we, though?” he asks. Responsibility. I like it in theory, not as much in practice.

  “Dave, shots,” I order. Dave seems more interested in looking back and forth between the two of us.

  “So I’m Dave,” he says, hand outstretched to my DJ. I take back everything I ever said about him, he’s an effective wingman.

  “Phoenix. Nice to meet you.”

  “I like him better than Brian already,” Dave tells me as he fills a shaker with ice.

  “Who is Brian?” asks Phoenix. He really doesn’t know, then. I stare at him for a moment, weighing exactly how much he needs to.

  “Legiterally no one.” I take my shot and clink the tiny glass against his. “Slainte.”

  “I don’t feel like that’s a real word. What the fuck did we just drink?”

  “I read it in a book, it’s fine,” I gasp and clutch my throat. “Dave, that was not Jameson.”

  “No!” He looks so proud of himself. “It’s one I just learned from Eileen. It’s called a—” he leans in and whispers— “a red-headed slut.”

  “Are we in college?” I’m outraged.

  “Are we allowed to say slut anymore?” Phoenix is confused.

  “Want another?” Dave made too many.

  “Well we aren’t wasting them, but Dave. Don’t do this again.” When I say he made too many, I mean Phoenix and I each have three more shots in our hands as we walk away from the bar. Suddenly I have a lot of insight both into why Dave normally just bar-backs and also into exactly where I stand with the cousin who owns There In Spirits.

  Phoenix is casting anxious glances back at the DJ booth, so I pull him towards the door for some fresh air instead. Fresh air is code for fewer sisters. I could actually use the quiet, though. Growing up with one million girls there were never enough bathrooms to lock yourself in to have a good hard think. In comparison, being outside doing shots with a hot guy while a few of Brian’s co-workers discuss the events of the day nearby is a total zen retreat.

  I’m kind enough not to speak so that he can eavesdrop and catch up. His face is super animated as he listens. That’s fun because I really like to talk when I’m having drinks.

  “This wedding sounds like a real shitshow,” Phoenix says to me.

  “Can confirm.” We do another one of our shots. The taste isn’t growing on me exactly, but it is less disgusting. I guess the first one was mostly bad because I was expecting my beloved Jameson and got some kind of Jager situation instead. That’s what I get for checking my drinks buddy out instead of paying attention. Que sera sera.

  “What kind of person does that, anyway?” He’s looking out at the lawn of the church instead of at me. That’s probably a good thing. My face is the color of his hair again.

  “The kind who just found out about the cheating the night before her wedding and doesn’t take that kind of nonsense lying down, that’s who.”

  That gets his attention.

  “No, that part’s just funny. In a cringe-y sort of way. I meant him. Who goes through with a wedding they don’t want while stringing along someone else they clearly don’t want?” It’s my turn to switch my gaze to the constellation of fireflies blinking on and off over the grass.

  “Someone who has no idea what they actually want, I guess.” I didn’t mean to give an answer that understanding. It’s unlike me and I immediately want to take it back and say something biting yet funny instead. Too late.

  “Or a total sociopath. Have you considered that your ex-fiancé might be a sociopath?”

  “You know, I actually have. Because once I saw a daytime talk show interview with a psychologist who said that sociopaths don’t yawn when you do because they have no empathy, right? So I started yawning around him all the time and he never—wait. You figured it out.”

  “I figured it out.” He taps another shot against one of mine. “I hope you know you deserve better.”

  I swallow the urge to tear up along with my redheaded-sex-positive-female drink. “I have always felt I deserved better, actually, but part of being a grownup is doing the boring thing.”

  “Who says?” For two seconds, I thought he was going to put his arm around me, but he just rubs a hand over his scruff instead. A way more appropriate move. Responsibility—still only fun in theory.

  On the other hand, maybe I could use an anonymous friend right about now. Without benefits.

  “Should we go dance?” I ask him. Friends dance, right?

  “I’m not drunk enough for that. Oh shit, I’m supposed to be working. Oh shit, is that—is someone playing the Chicken Dance? I have to get back in there and fix this. Why don’t you grab another drink and enjoy yourself? It’s your night, after all.” He heads back in, last shot in hand.

  I stare at the lawn for a few more minutes, enjoying the breeze that only sort of cuts through the humidity. I should enjoy myself. I do deserve it. It is my goddamn night. Which is why I wait until the Chicken Dance has been safely switched to Frank Ocean befor
e going in to collect a few more redheaded shots from Dave (“Not a fucking word,” I tell him, but of course he’ll bring this up again) and taking them back to the DJ booth to hit Phoenix with my signature line.

  “We meet again.” He looks up and laughs, and I have no idea why I thought I could just be friends with someone whose eyes crinkle up like that when they laugh. It’s way too hot for friendship. He’s not built for that. No, this guy? This guy right here is going to be my rebound bang.

  Hopefully he realizes that.

  “Who hired you, anyway?” Wow, I’m really good at flirting.

  “No one technically hired me. I live with your wedding planner’s boyfriend, and she said she needed a DJ who’d work for drinks and that I had nothing better to do on a Saturday night. So thanks for the drinks, by the way.”

  “So if you aren’t getting paid and you don’t have anything better to be doing, why don’t we just turn this booth into a self-service type of situation and hang out instead?”

  He tilts his head at me. “Don’t you want to be with your family and friends right about now? That was a pretty brutal breakup no matter how you look at it. It’s a little weird to end up getting drunk with a stranger.”

  Okay, so he doesn’t know what’s happening between us.

  “Listen, Phoenix. You really think I want all the pity-glances and the long talk from my parents about two wrongs not making a right? A stranger feels like my best option at salvaging this wake.” He thinks for a minute and then nods. Steps back out over to me.

  “Makes sense.”

  “Sooo…” I don’t really know what to say now. I feel like I’ve put in enough effort and now it’s his turn.

  “So are sociopaths your normal type of guy, or do you ever date redheads?” I choke on my redheaded drink.

  “Wow, you just say the things inside your head, don’t you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No. And neither does any self-respecting adult that I know.” On the plus side, though, it turns out he knows what’s happening after all.

  “That’s dumb. When you mean things, you should just say them. There’s nothing cute about cynicism.” He’s closer to me than he should be, and it’s giving me goosebumps.

  “Fuck you, I am so cute.”

  “You are really cute.” My heart does that skippy thing again while we look at each other.

  “I never thought I had a type before, but I’ve just decided it’s you,” I— or maybe more accurately my blood alcohol level— tell him. “All men should look like you.”

  All this prolonged eye contact is making me dizzy, so when he leans in and kisses me I close mine. Phoenix has the softest lips I’ve ever tasted and I’m positive he can feel my heart pounding against his chest. When he finally pulls back with another one of those dangerous smiles, I’m done for.

  “Wow, I should have married you.”

  “It’s not too late,” he says. “The priest is still here.”

  I crack up. That’s a good one. Except he isn’t laughing. And that was the best kiss I can remember having. And it’s certainly cost-effective to just go ahead and utilize all the options at my disposal for one night only. Besides, I’m drunk and he clearly is too, and this sounds like the kind of story I can dine out on for years.

  Plus, and this is no small part of the decision, I’m really excited to consummate a union with this fucking hottie for the next few days on the honeymoon I was just going to waste by bringing Eileen along for.

  It takes all of five minutes to rally the troops again.

  It takes five more minutes and a significant cash bribe to get Father Paddy to overlook his qualms. (“We can annul it tomorrow,” he assures me. “Do not consummate this.”)

  It takes five minutes to get through basic vows with no accompanying Mass.

  Fifteen minutes total before I kiss him again and confirm that he is, indeed, the world’s best kisser.

  From the bar, Dave looks as thrilled as if it were him, and I throw him my bouquet. The man definitely deserves flowers. My mother is crying, and I’m not totally sure it’s about how beautiful I look in my reception/wedding dress. A lot of the guests look either confused or horrified, and I can’t really blame them.

  But, I think to myself as I follow Phoenix out of the hall so we don’t have to deal with the inevitable debacle dinner speeches would become, fuck everyone else. It’s pretty much the last thing I remember thinking until I wake up the next day with a blinding hangover, a ring on my left hand, and a really hot redheaded mistake in my bed.

  Responsibility: what even is it?

  Four

  The Hangover

  “How many missed calls do I have from my sisters, Husband?” I ask from beneath my pillow. I’m operating under the assumption that we are both alive, despite the death wish I clearly had while doling out shots last night.

  “A general guess is a number too high for me to count to with this headache, Wife.” I’m gratified that I’m not suffering alone. And yet, the idea of what a horrorshow I must look right now is upsetting. Just because Father Paddy is going to help me annul this doesn’t mean I want my super-hot mister to see me in this state. Two things occur to me simultaneously:

  One: I don’t believe I got his (my?) last name in all the inebriated rush to the altar.

  Two: We’re still in our clothes.

  So that’s half good and half bad. On the plus side, it’ll make the annulment a real breeze. On the downside, I put a ring on that and I still haven’t gotten any fringe benefits? Not cool. He was the one who told me I deserved nice things in the first place.

  I glance at the clock through bleary eyes. It’s the very crack of noon, and I’m pretty sure I know what to do next.

  “We’ll need to discuss this with my counsel.” I can feel Phoenix stiffen a little bit next to me, and I don’t mean in the fun way. “There’s a Bloody in it for you.”

  “In which case, you can have the first shower.” My husband is very gracious, so in exchange I don’t use all the hot water. This marriage is helping me grow as a person already. It’s also helpful that I can be fully made-up and dressed when he climbs out ten minutes later, still looking a tad green around the gills.

  Green and red are complimentary colors, though, so his hair looks extra fucking hot. God, but I have good taste in husbands. I bet all my sisters are also green, but with jealousy.

  A quick glance at my phone tells me that it’s been well-disguised by their concerns over my general well-being, decision-making capabilities, and mental health at large. But if there’s anything I know how to do, it’s soothe ruffled Riley feathers, so I just text back, you stan an impulsive queen and carry on with collecting headache pills and car keys.

  A short drive later, we’re walking into There In Spirits to see the only priest I really want to talk to today—Sierra the bartender.

  “Meet my husband,” I announce. “We need a hair of the dog that bit us, please, and stat.”

  She looks real surprised. Perhaps this isn’t standard fare for wedding morning-afters. But instead of calling me out she motions with her head for me to meet her by the garnish trays for a quick side-bar.

  “I must say, I thought Brian would be more boring-looking. Are you certain the sexual dysfunction is on his end?” she asks. It’s rude, but accurate, cause just look at Phoenix, one elbow propped on the bar, wearing last night’s black pants and one of my oversized t-shirts. When he does that, you can see how nice his muscles are, something Brian never found necessary to achieve soap-sales glory.

  “And I must say, I accidentally married the DJ and not my fiancé.”

  “A bold move.” She thinks for a moment while we both stare at him. He not-so-casually moves one hand up to cover his face. If he thinks our staring problem is uncomfortable, just wait until my sisters inevitably come traipsing in for their own hangover cures.

  “Sierra, I believe Dave is the one who is truly at fault here. Were you aware that he was going to be doling o
ut Redheaded Slut shots at my wedding? I was clearly pre-disposed to the ginger mindset after that.”

  “How déclassé,” she shudders. “And yet, I feel that you may have gotten the better deal here.”

  “One must agree.” She starts to mix us drinks that I note with much gratitude have nary a drop of Jager in them. “And just to more fully paint this mental picture of the wedding night for me, you didn’t invite the priest to join you?”

  “I didn’t even realize that was an option.” Not that Father Paddy would have been in my top thousand list for inappropriate three-ways, of course. Even if he weren’t three hundred years old, he spends far too much time with Ma.

  “Trust me, everything’s an option. All you really need to remember are the words of our prophet Britney Spears.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Well, all of them.” She makes, as always, an excellent point. I collect the drinks and move back to my husband’s side. I wonder when my heart will stop having little rainbow explosions over that phrase as applied to him. When I thought about Brian like that, it was always with a side of eyeroll.

  “So tell me all about yourself, and don’t leave out any of the gory details,” Sierra tells him, boobs and dimples on full display. This doesn’t seem to faze him at all. Bartender Wingman is my new band name, probably.

  “My name is Phoenix Kelly, I grew up in the suburbs, I hate birds, like soccer, music, and whatever this drink is.” She beams, and sips one of her own.

  “It’s my special recipe. Now, tell me about your family.” I venture a taste of mine—it is good. I can hardly taste the alcohol, which definitely makes it go down smoothly. A few more of these, and so will I.

  “My family is boring. There’s really nothing to tell. My brother and I drank milk with dinner and took piano lessons and wore our helmets to ride bikes.” I’m utterly fascinated. My family drinks at dinner, destroys anything expensive, and enjoys living dangerously. Also, a brother! What a novelty.