He finally raises that fucking gavel.
“The court hereby recognizes the annulment between Ian Mathers and Kathryn Alison. May their marriage be stricken from the records.” That smack of the gavel should sound reassuring, but all I want to do is cry.
Miguel shakes me back to reality. The people running the show here want both of our parties to vacate the premises so the next case can be presented. Just like that, Ian and I have been mocked in the court of law, and nobody gives a shit—because two other poor drunken schlubs need an annulment. That’s okay, though, because they’re uneducated and poor. They’re apparently allowed to make mistakes.
Yeah, I’m a little mad.
The five of us sit out in a waiting area. The benches are hard, uncomfortable. I keep shifting between thighs even as Miguel brings me a paper cup full of drinking fountain water. Ian stands a few feet away. We can’t even look at one another. Not even when a courtroom lackey comes up and discusses taking the research the lawyers did on the chapel so they can go after them next. “The judge is difficult,” the man in a cheap suit says, “but he has a point about us trying to root out these shady chapels taking money and marrying people who can’t legally consent. We’ll also need any pictures you have of your clients intoxicated.”
I’d been avoiding something like that. Mostly because the pictures of our “wedding” I have on my phone are so embarrassing that I would love to permanently delete them. Except Miguel insisted we keep them as evidence, in case the judge wanted proof that we were drunk the night we got married. To think I thought that would be the most embarrassing part!
Since our lawyers have copies of the blurry selfies, it’s a moot point. I toss my empty paper cup into the nearest trash and lean my head back on the bench, staring at the stucco on the ceiling and wondering when I can get the fuck out of here. We’re spending two more days in Vegas before finally hopping a private plane back home. So much for our romantic getaway.
Ah, fuck, I’m in such a haze that I almost forgot about my ex-husband.
I look at him, sitting on the other end of the bench, head in his hands and looking humiliated and miserable. I know the feeling.
We don’t say anything. We barely regard one another. Not because we suddenly hate each other, but because it’s too embarrassing to deal with. We were basically told that we had no business getting married anyway, because we’re too stupid to handle it. Too privileged. Too “rich and dumb.”
I don’t feel that way! Yes, I made a mistake. I was stupid, but lots of people make mistakes like that. I’ve learned from it, and I will move on. My only worry is that this will affect my relationship with Ian. The judge was right. We will always remember that night we got so shitfaced we got married in Vegas. Then we will always remember being humiliated in a courtroom a week later, because a judge had a chip on his shoulder.
Whenever I imagined getting married one day... I did not associate it with embarrassment. I did not think I would spend one week of my life married, only to have it end with a bunch of people laughing at me in a courtroom.
I never imagined a lot of things. Because I’m rich and dumb, I guess.
“Kathryn,” Ian finally says, not looking at me. “I’m sorry this happened. I take responsibility for everything.”
“Why?” I mutter. “I was drunk too. I signed that paper too. Don’t try to absolve me of...” I look away. I can’t bear to look him in the face right now. “Responsibility.”
It’s funny. We had plans for tonight. After this was over, we were going to go out and (not drunkenly) have fun as celebration of our annulment. Now I’m sitting here wondering... who the fuck does that? Who celebrates a fuckup of this magnitude? Who decides something like that should be romantically celebrated? Why? Because we can finally have intercourse again and not feel like dirty liars when the judge accuses us of that very thing? God, I feel sick. I really am an idiot. I’m going to be embarrassed about this for the rest of my life.
Tears I can’t control start coming down my cheeks. Before Ian can say anything, I leap up and make a beeline for the nearest restroom. The last thing I need is an audience for the tremendous amount of shame suddenly coursing through my frail body.
You’d think I had lost some big case from the way I stumble into the restroom and find the closest couch to sit on. I barely register the signs saying that this area is for nursing mothers and other such people. I don’t care. I want to sit here and wallow, and I’m not even sure why.
I see flecks of my reflection in a nearby mirror. I’m young. I’m blond, and not even my French twist and the blue power suit I’m wearing can take away from the fact I’m young, blond, and dumb. I don’t pay attention to blond jokes. I can’t help it if my Swedish genes are so strong that they overpower everything else and give me fine blond hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. I didn’t ask for that, and yet I sit here, realizing how much power that gives me. People think I’m beautiful. Hot. Stunning. More than one creep wanted me to be a model when I was younger. I had guys sleep with me simply because I ticked some box for them. “Fuck a hot blonde. Check!” Now some judge in Nevada thinks it’s more evidence that I think my messes can be cleaned up. Because I’m rich and blond.