All right, I can’t hold to that. But back to the problem at hand. The couch cushions are all over the goddamn floor. Did I check the bedroom? Thoroughly?
I tear the bed apart, pull the comforter down, rip off the sheets. I shake out the pillows, crawl on my hands and knees across the bathroom floor, even check my contact lens case to make sure I didn’t get creative with my placement last night.
Last night. A lot of it’s come back to me, but not all. Who the fuck knows when I’ll remember everything else? Shit, maybe I dropped the rings in the fountain outside. Maybe I gave them to a hooker. Maybe I left them in Phoebe’s house, and now she’ll have an easy way to tie me back to breaking and entering—I broke into my ex-girlfriend’s house, what kind of insane asshole am I?—and I can kiss my entire goddamn life goodbye.
Most of all, I’ll ruin my fucking best friend’s wedding, and why? Because motherfucking tequila, that’s why. Because I am a shitty asshole friend, that’s why.
Why is it every shitty romantic choice starts with a shot of tequila? Why can’t it be gin, just once, for fuck’s sake?
While I’m lying on my stomach and studying every inch of the carpeted living room floor, the door opens.
Fuck me. Mike.
He comes inside, doing up his cufflinks. He even put the stupid boutonniere in his lapel. It’s a purple orchid with a spray of glitter. Stacy thought they were the best. Her whole bouquet is made up of orchids.
Can you get married if you don’t have rings? Can we get them some ring pops, like in the proposal scene in Deadpool? Will I have to carry them down the aisle clenched in my ass, just like in Deadpool? Why the fuck am I thinking about Deadpool so much? Besides the fact that that movie is perfect, I mean.
Mike grunts when he sees me trying to do the worm across the living room. He looks around the destroyed area, the coffee table overturned, the pillows everywhere.
“Oh shit. Okay,” Mike says, running over and kneeling beside me, gripping my shoulders. “Tell me the truth, buddy. How much coke did you snort?” He looks genuinely freaked. Even though I’m ruining his wedding, I swat him away impatiently.
“Christ, it’s not like that. I’m . . . I’m checking the cleanliness of the place.” I get back on my stomach and try to look around the coffee table debris.
Shit, if Julia were here now, what would she think?
And now I have to stop thinking about Julia, because the last thing I need is an accidental boner when I tell my friend I’ve sabotaged his wedding.
“I’m pretty sure you have better things to do in the fifty-seven minutes before I get married,” Mike says, though he just sounds kind of puzzled. “What the hell’s going on with you?”
Maybe if I pretend to have amnesia. No. Even I think that’s fucking lame.
“Why don’t you go downstairs and keep Tyler from getting laid in the chocolate fountain? I’ll just be up here getting ready,” I say, checking under the couch.
Oh, there’s something under here. I reach under and come up with two mint Life Savers. Fucking mint. No one eats that anyway. Whose are these?
“You have a distinct aura of shitting-your-pants-in-terror going on right now. As you’re the best man, I would think our positions would be reversed. Like, maybe I start freaking out and you give me an inspiring speech about love. Well, not inspiring, because it’s you,” Mike says, sitting on the couch and glaring down at me.
I get up, straightening my jacket. This is what I need to do: adopt glacier Lawyer Face? and tell him that the rings are no longer in my possession. This is not an admission of guilt; it’s simply stating that at some point last night, the rings left my possession, potentially by thievery or a third party. If that is the case—
“I lost your wedding rings, man.” Who am I kidding? Even I’m not that big a dick. I can’t even look Mike in the face right now. “I got really drunk last night, and I can’t remember everything yet. I don’t know where they are.”
Christ, I have to turn around. I put my hands in my pockets and walk over to the window, gazing at the Strip as the sun starts setting right behind the mountains. The whole city is bathed in dusk and deep red, the lights starting to glint on the desert horizon. “I’m sorry,” I mutter.
“Is that it?” Mike asks, walking over to stand next to me. He looks out at the mountains with me. No big emotion in his voice, no incredulous shouting about how I could possibly be this dumb. Just two guys looking out at some motherfucking mountains. “Shit. I thought it was an emergency, like you were sick or you kidnapped Liam Neeson’s daughter.”
“Oh shit. Now I remember,” I say, widening my eyes. Mike smiles.
See? I’m hilarious.
“Well, you can give her back. Probably.” Mike finally does glance at me. “It’s okay. No big deal. We’ll find a replacement set, or we’ll mime it or something.”