Billionaires in Vegas

Somehow we drag ourselves to the bathroom. A shower isn’t going to sober us up, but it will at least make us look and smell better. Not that we’re in a huge hurry to make that happen. Kathryn sits naked on the bench, letting the water beat her skin while I lean against the wall and inhale the steam like it’s the greatest life force I have ever encountered. My stomach grumbles, but the thought of eating is so appalling that I want to vomit. I’m sure Kathryn isn’t super into the idea of getting breakfast, either. We’ll have to eat something, though.

This isn’t our first time being hungover together, but this is probably the worst case of hungoveritis we’ve ever had. I know it’s my worst time since, oh, college. Those frat parties were no joke, and here I am, thirty, trying to party like I am twenty again. It doesn’t work, kids. Mind your age and realize your limitations as you get older. You heard it here first from Uncle Ian.

“You look like fucking shit,” Kathryn mumbles. I can barely hear her over the shower. I wish I hadn’t.

“You look like hell too.” Her eyes are puffy and red. Her hair, which she vainly tries to wash—and I end up having to help with because she can’t hold her tresses long enough to get them washed—looks like stringy noodles that have been pasted together in some kid’s craft project. Her breath is atrocious. I kiss her mouth anyway, because I love her, but holy shit it smells like something died in her mouth. I’m sure my breath doesn’t smell much better, but I am compelled to passive aggressively nudge a toothbrush in her direction. Nasty.

We’re not feeling better when we get out of the shower, but we don’t smell, and that’s a huge improvement. Kathryn pulls her white silk robe on and wanders around the hotel room, sniffing out cereal and yogurt from the morning before. I know that I should eat, but hearing her crunch cereal between her teeth makes me want to huuuurl. I need a hair of the dog, but the best I’m doing right now is putting a shirt on.

Kathryn sits down with her yogurt and plays with her phone. From the way her thumb is moving, even this hungover douchebag can tell she’s looking through photos. Probably from last night. Trying to piece together our trail of destruction through Vegas.

“That is so tacky,” she mutters. “Elvis impersonators...”

“When in Vegas, baby.”

“Uh huh.” She ignores me as I wander over and put my arms around her, lips munching on her neck like she’s munching on cereal in her yogurt. I don’t want to have sex, but I do want to put my hands all over her, because she’s my girlfriend, and because she’s hot. I’m a simple creature. “When did we go to somebody’s wedding?”

“What?”

Kathryn shows me a picture. “Who are these people?”

I look. There are numerous pictures of us, mostly selfies, depicting us in various settings. Most of them look like clubs and bars at first. Then we’re in a chapel... and I don’t recognize the people we’re with.

“I have no idea.” I look down at my hand, registering the fact that my ring is on the wrong hand for the first time all morning. I look at Kathryn’s hand. Her promise ring is on her left hand too.

“This is the most monu... monumental... monumenTOUS thing I have eeevverrr done!” I remember saying that last night. I remember standing in front of some tacky cherub statue and ripping my ring off my finger. “I love you, baby!”

Kathryn and I exchange a look.

“Ian,” she growls, hand grabbing my collar. “I swear to fucking God.”

I have never seen a hungover woman sober up so quickly. She’s staring at me, ready to kill me, ready to rip my ball sack off my body and toss it out our high-rise window.

“Now calm down,” I say, putting gentle hands on her shoulders. She’s still looking at me, though. Leering at me, and not in the sexy way. “We’re having some pretty wild memories right now. Things will make sense in a few minutes.”

We both see it at the same time.

A piece of paper sitting on top of a coffee table.

When I’m drunk off my ass, my signature apparently looks like a bunch of curly loops slipping slovenly off the page. SIGN HERE, the license says, and yet drunk Ian Mathers from last night apparently thought, “Nah, man, I’m gonna slather my John Hancock all over this line like we’re making sweet love.” To be fair, Katie’s isn’t much better. She has a giant A taking up twice the space it should.

“Ian!”

Panic echoes in the room. I am somehow completely cool and calm as I look down into a tiny piece of paper that says I am married to Kathryn.