The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely
Chance
Sunlight streams cruelly through the windows.
A sledgehammer hits my head.
Not just once, but over and over.
I blink my eyes as far open as a squint.
I haven’t seen the inside of a hangover in years, and I’m seeing the inside, outside and upside-down of one right now.
An obnoxious ring blares from my phone.
Again.
And again.
Fumbling for it, I find it on the nightstand and hit snooze.
Sierra doesn’t rustle.
I trudge to the bathroom, hunt for some ibuprofen, down them, and return to bed.
Curling up next to Sierra, I conk out for another twenty minutes.
* * *
The alarm blasts again.
Loud.
Insistent.
What time is it?
“Oh crap.” Sierra’s worry registers, and I push up on my elbows, yawning.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, catching a glimpse of gold on my finger.
Oh.
Right.
Yup.
We had the bright idea last night to get hitched.
Which was crazy, but hell, did it feel good at the time.
I think?
I scratch my head. Everything feels fuzzy.
“Your flight. It leaves in an hour and twenty. Mine leaves in an hour and ten. Shit, shit, shit!” She flies out of bed, naked as the day she was born.
She slams the bathroom door shut, and seconds later, the faucet is running.
The sound of furious teeth brushing accompanies me as I jump out of bed, hoof it to my bag for some boxer briefs, and quickly get dressed.
Two minutes later, Sierra swings open the door. “We need to go ASAP.”
“I know,” I say, as my head pounds again, and I groan in frustration.
“I’m annoyed too,” she mutters as she grabs her clothes from the bed, wheeling around to snag more from the floor.
“That annoyed voice was for my . . . headache. It’s like a murder went down in my brain,” I say as I head to the bathroom with my bag.
“I think my brain was an accessory to the crime. Maybe an alibi,” she says, stuffing shoes into her bag.
Checking the time again, I speed-brush my teeth, scoop all my toiletries into my arms and dump them in my carry-on. I grab some ibuprofen and pour a glass of water, then bring it to her. “Here. This should help. My headache is a little better already.”
Her shoulders relax as she pops the pills in her mouth then swallows them. “Thanks,” she says, and she sets the cup on the bureau.
I scan the room for stray belongings and grab my watch from the nightstand, along with my phone charger. As Sierra stuffs her feet into flats, I dump everything into my bag, stopping when I find the Just Married sashes poking out from under the bed.
What do I do with these? They’re hardly a souvenir.
But I can’t bring myself to toss them, so I stuff them into my suitcase.
“I’ll call a Lyft,” I say, entering the info in my app.
Fifteen minutes after we get up, we rush out of the suite, Mr. and Mrs. I Have No Fucking Clue What Is Happening.
In the elevator, I turn to face her. “So . . .”
“Yeah . . . so.” She gazes down at her hand, staring at it like her ring-finger has turned blue.
“I guess we got married last night,” I say, heavily.
What the hell kind of insane idea was that? Caught up in the night and the feelings, that’s what I came up with? A Vegas wedding?
How about: I’m falling in love with you. Let’s stay together and date.
Instead, I blurted out let’s get married because that’s . . . fun?
I should have turned to Google.
To TJ.
To my own brain.
Instead, I went with my drunken heart.
Sierra sighs too, raising her left hand. “I guess we did.”
The elevator arrives at the ground floor with a ding.
Vegas is an empty stage in the morning—lights up, artifice exposed. The magic of the neon nights vanishes at dawn. What’s left is overturned glasses, big bets lost, and decisions bathed in regret.
I steal a glance at Sierra. Does she regret last night? “So, um,” I begin, my throat raspy from the shouting at the club. “Do we just get . . .” I break away, barely able to voice the words. But I have to say them. “. . . an annulment?”
She winces like the thought causes physical pain. She lifts her hand to her head, sets her palm on her forehead, and lets out a low, plaintive moan.
“Your head still hurts?”
She nods, cringing like she’s trying to fight off the pain.
“We can talk about this another time,” I say gently.
But can we? And when? What the hell do we do to fix this? To undo this?
Once we’re at the entrance, I spot our Lyft quickly. I set our bags in the trunk before the driver can and slide inside.
“Airport, right?”
“Yup,” I say as I buckle in and Sierra does the same.
She lifts her face, sighs. “Yes to the annulment,” she says, returning to the issue. “I mean, that seems the simplest. Maybe the airport has a booth for annulments?”
I laugh humorlessly. “They have slot machines. Seems they ought to have quickie divorce options.”
Divorce.
That word tastes like spoiled milk.
“They definitely should.” She looks down at her phone. “It’ll be close, but we should make it.”
“Good, good.” I don’t know what else to say.
Hey, let’s not get annulled.
Let’s go out on more dates.
I search for annulments at the airport but come up empty. “I guess they don’t offer—”
She interrupts with a muttered, “Oh God.”
“What’s wrong now?”
Brandishing her phone, she shows me a picture.
A photo of us with our Just Married sashes on.
Dread coils in me. If she’s got that picture, everyone does. That means everyone’s going to know I broke the rules. I violated the code. I’m not a good guy.
“Where’s that from?” I ask nervously.
“Clementine sent it to me. She said, Congratulations, you little stinker. Next time I want to be there. Said she saw it on Insta. And here’s another one, from my friend Erin. Omg that is so epic. And my brother. Something you want to tell me?”
With a groan, I click open my phone, and like Sierra’s, my texts light up.
Shane:You sneaky, cheeky fucker! Congrats!
Harlan:Guess you did realize you were falling after all!
TJ:Details. Now.
Grant:I go away to Hawaii, you pretend to date my sister, take her to Vegas, and then get married. Okayyyy!????
One more click over to Instagram confirms that Bianca tagged us in a photo at the hotel last night. I don’t even remember her taking one. But clearly, I don’t recall a lot of last night.
I meet Sierra’s gaze and shrug helplessly. “I guess we were impulsive last night,” I say in the biggest of understatements.
“Just a little bit.” Her tone is strained.
A few minutes later, the car pulls up at the airport. There’s no time to dwell on our next step, though—a quick ride up the escalator reveals a long line at security.
“TSA pre-check,” Sierra says, pointing and race walking.
That line isn’t short either. But after fifteen minutes of raw nerves and c’mons muttered under my breath, we make it to the other side.
My phone flashes with an alert that my flight to New York is boarding now.
She shows me hers. Her flight is already boarding group C.
“I need to go,” she says, sounding as lost as I feel.
I part my lips, but no words come.
My head is a mess, a scattered jumble of nonsense.
Saying “Let’s get divorced and date,” sounds dumb. Saying “Let’s stay married but just date,” sounds even dumber.
That’s ridiculous.
Completely and utterly ridiculous.
I lean in, dust a kiss onto her cheek, then say, “I’ll take care of this, I promise.”
When we break apart, her brow is knit with worry. “Take care of this?”
I flap a hand in the direction of the city. “You know. Last night.” Tension winds in me like a too-tight instrument. “I meant everything. I’m crazy about you, but I need to go.”
“Me too,” she says, wistful.
I turn and run down the concourse, swipe my boarding pass at the gate, then step onto the jetway.
I turn around for one last look, like this is a movie and she’ll run after me. Or I’d rush after her instead, calling, “Wait, I made a terrible mistake,” planting a tender kiss on her lips when I reach her.
Then I’d tell her I’m in love with her.
But this isn’t a movie—this is the real world.
And the reality is, I fucked up.
Badly.
