by Tessa Layne
Responsibility: what even is it?
Chapter 4
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 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 out 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.
“You didn’t feel like you fit in,” Sierra says. That was not at all what I gathered from that, but he’s nodding.
“It always felt like I had to do things the one way, and if I didn’t, I would upset them. It isn’t even like I wanted to shave my eyebrows or join the circus or anything, but there’s something depressing about coming from a cookie-cutter and knowing that your parents’ definition of your success is an identical cookie-cutter, you know?”
Something hits me like a ton of bricks.
“Are they gonna be mad about this?” I gesture to the matching rings we’re wearing.
“They won’t be mad. They’ll be disappointed. The far more passive-aggressive way to handle it.” My stomach drops. I was so wrapped up in what my family would be thinking, saying, and texting—not to mention feeling triumphant at my epic mic-drop over Brian—that it hadn’t for a second occurred to me that Phoenix might have a few issues to deal with as well.
In my family, someone is literally always disappointed, mad, amused, upset—my seven sisters might as well be the seven dwarves. It’s a foreign idea for me to worry about other people’s emotions when making decisions. Mostly because I’d never have made a single one for myself if so.
Is that what his life has been to this point?
If so, I’m proudly counting myself as his best choice.
So in return—still growing as a person, this marriage is so fucking successful—I make another spontaneous decision.
“Phoenix, chug that drink. I’m dumping Eileen and taking you on a honeymoon.”
Chapter 5
THE HONEYMOON
When Brian received his promotion and sent me the great honeymoon news over text, I’ll admit to being less than pleased. In fact, we didn’t speak for a week over it. Okay, fine, it was just me that didn’t speak for a week. I’m not totally convinced he noticed. But honestly, I had British Royal dreams of the Seychelles, or at the very least, of Tahiti, and he full well knew that. So discovering that the magical three-day weekend was going to be in small town Missouri was a real let-down, to say the least.
I’d planned on spending the majority of my time in the spa, being cared for like a queen and charging it all to the room tied to his credit card, but now?
Looking at Phoenix, fully recovered from this morning and dressed in his own clothes once again, I finally understand why people never leave their room on honeymoons. He figures it out pretty fast, too, when I tackle him to the bed and press my lips to his until they part.
In about half a second, he’s hard against me as his han
ds guide my hips. Even through all our clothes, I’m sure he can feel my heat as our tongues slide together. I rub against him like a cat in heat. After a minute he rolls us over and sits back to take off his shirt. I could look at him like this all day, but I’m sure not mad when he comes right back down on top of me to kiss some more.
This is what it’s going to be like to have sex with him, I think. I had completely forgotten sex is something other people do for a good time. And this right here? A hella good time.
Of course, I know that once we do this, the easiest method of annulment is gone. Once we do this, there’s no going back. It’s going to be real. All of this between us will suddenly be so much bigger than a rebound make-out, so much more than a funny wedding story.
But this is what it’s going to be like.
And this feels like heaven.
Hell help me.
Then his hand is up my shirt and he makes a little noise in the back of his throat when he has my nipple under his thumb and I don’t really care about anything anymore except feeling more of his skin on mine.
He rolls a little bit to the side, enough to slide his hand into my pants and feel for himself how hot and wet I am for him.
“Does that feel good, baby?” he asks, as though the fact that I’m panting and bucking against his fingers doesn’t give that away. My heart melts a little that he just called me baby. I kiss him again so that he won’t see me smile like a teenage girl. Once I’m completely lost in the rhythm of our bodies moving together, he pulls back and sucks me off his fingers. I swear I almost come right there. Luckily, I’m able to wait until he climbs off the bed and takes his pants off before grabbing a condom from his bag.
Because when he turns around and I see him naked for the first time, it’s like a chorus of angels begins to sing. My husband is blessed. And in the length of time it takes him to finish rolling on the condom, climb back on top of me, and settle between my legs, I have already thanked the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost for my own blessing in having entered into holy matrimony with the owner of the biggest, prettiest dick I have ever seen.
I sort of expect him to go slowly, given the momentousness of the occasion, but he pushes right in, all the way.
It’s so overwhelming, in the best possible way, I see stars.
Maybe this is heaven, maybe I died on the way to the hotel. It would explain the feeling in my chest. The rainbows are back, and this time they brought kittens. I put one of my hands on his, to feel his heart racing in time with mine. The other is on the back of his thigh, urging him in harder. Faster.
He moves in and out of me, changing up the speed and the angle. All I can do is hold on. Follow where he leads. Try not to scream and get us kicked out.
His head is buried in my left shoulder while I think to myself, this is how it is. This is how it feels. This is what it’s like with him.
And when he bites my neck and sends me over the edge, coming for him until he joins me, I make my stupidest ever decision.
I fall in love.
Chapter 6
THE ADJUSTMENT
I could bang nonstop for the entire three days if Phoenix doesn’t insist on recharging between orgasms. Luckily, it doesn’t take long. I now regret not having absorbed all the spicy ideas Sierra had been willing to offer at my bachelorette. I’m going to get her number and fix that as soon as we get home.
Or maybe, I’ll be too busy in my own bed at that point.
I haven’t exactly asked, but I just assume we’ll be living at my house, because he has a roommate and that’s not a very grownup thing for married people to do.
He grabs the room-service menu and our heads touch while we look together. His perfect copper hair and my strawberry blonde. When I glance at him, his eyes are on me and not the menu. The rainbows and kittens shoot a confetti cannon off in my heart. It’s a whole ass Lisa Frank party in there.
I’m pretty sure we decide on cheap wine and a pricy charcuterie board. It’s hard to tell what I’m agreeing to when his hazel eyes are locked on mine. I knew he was hot when I met him at my wedding, but now when I look at him, I cannot for the life of me understand how the whole world isn’t as obsessed as I currently am. The hotel must not be super booked, because it only takes about fifteen minutes for the knock to come on our door.
“Roooooooom service!” trills a very loud, very high-pitched voice in what seems to me to be a very fake and ill-defined accent.
My head is already shaking when Phoenix throws a pair of athletic pants on to answer. I don’t have time to stop him, though, and everything feels like it’s happening in slow-motion.
He opens the door.
Five of my sisters come tumbling in.
The volume immediately goes up to unholy levels.
The odds of me getting laid again grow smaller by the second.
Everyone’s talking at once and touching his hair and asking how the sex was and if we know this means we can’t get an annulment. Phoenix is frantically trying to kick the used condoms under the bed and pull his underwear off Darby’s head and assure them all that yes, his hair is quite natural thank you.
He is the only one who is surprised when the actual room service shows up and the locusts descend, leaving us with crumbs, an empty bottle, and the bill.
Surely if Eileen had known about this, she’d have put a stop to it, but one can never be certain. She isn’t here is all I know. And now the sisters are pulling out bottles of Jameson and discussing where everyone plans to sleep, because of course it wasn’t enough to interrupt my honeymoon. They’re doing it on the cheap, where no one coughs up for their own room.
I mouth sorry at Phoenix even though we’re right next to each other. It’s not like he could hear me over the racket. He smiles, but he doesn’t look super happy. Me either, kid.
I pull him out onto the balcony of our room for some air and a semblance of privacy.
For a long moment neither of us speaks as we both appreciate the dull roar my sisters become with the sliding door shut.
“Welcome to the Riley family?” I try.
“I suppose you should meet mine too.” I smile for the first time since the invasion. Meet the people who made this magnificent creature? Hard yes. “Maybe we just go ahead and do it now. We can pick up wine afterwards and take it back to yours to pick back up where we left off.”
“Brian’s card is the one on this room.”
Never have I been more pleased about leaving vacation than as we covertly gather our things and slip out of The Elms. But then, a couple hours later?
Never in my goddamn life have I suffered an indignity like being forced to drink 2% milk and eat a Flintstones vitamin with dinner at my new in-law’s home. It’s not exactly like my own parents were sharing the wine before I’d reached high school age, but I at least got to choose whether I wanted water or tea. The occasional soda.
And I stopped chewing my vitamins when I stopped wearing Velcro shoes.
“So Phoenix tells us you are a social media manager?” his mother asks me in the same tone of voice one typically reserves for discussing gangrene.
“I am, yes. It’s a new kind of job, but one that really works for me. I’m not terribly employable in the traditional sense, but I do like money. Running people’s social media accounts out of my bed works for me.” His father chokes a little on his couscous, but I’m almost positive it’s to disguise a laugh.
“Not employable?”
“It’s my sisters.” I pause for a bite of broccoli. It’s pretty good, and I don’t even like vegetables. “We tend to become infestations, which HR is rarely too pleased about, particularly when we all get into it in the break room. Do you think I could have your recipe for this?”
That pacifies her, and we have a perfectly lovely dinner, minus the fact that Phoenix refuses to fuck me in his childhood bedroom. I didn’t know I was marrying such a prude, but hey. No one’s perfect.
But he could at least pretend I am, given that we’re still newlywe
ds, I’m thinking a month later as he loses his cool in our living room.
“I just want some quiet time!”
“It is quiet.” It is, too. “Kathleen, Maggie, hold on, I’m in a fight.”
“You have two different televisions tuned to two different stations, music on your laptop, and you’re talking on a three-way call on speakerphone!”
“That is quiet.” Maybe I should get off the phone, though. I go ahead and hang up on my sisters just in case.
“Not for me. I’m going to my parent’s.” Now that’s going too far. My hackles are immediately raised.
“And I’m going to the bar.” I slam the door before I hear if he has a smart comment to make about that, too, and fume the whole way there. Like he can’t just put on headphones like everyone else in the world when they want to drown things out? How does he think Daddy survived eight daughters? Also, how dare he go to his parents with this? Now they will know we’re fighting, and I already felt like I was on shaky ground with them. Well. Not with his dad. That guy loves me.
But that isn’t the point.
When I walk into There In Spirits, I’m greeted by Dave’s enthusiastic grin. I half-return it as I look around for my girl.
“Oh, she’s not here.” He hurries to set a coaster and a napkin in front of my usual stool.
“But I need therapy! When does Sierra work again?” Suddenly he can’t make eye contact anymore.
“Dave. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Um… she doesn’t technically work here. I just let her behind the bar sometimes when it’s slow.” For fuck sake. It is so hard to find good help these days. One question remains, though.
“Why?”
“She’s an author. She says it’s a better way to spend an evening of writer’s block than facedown, rolling around on the floor.” That does explain an awful lot.