“Jesus, Mia,” Harlow says under her breath. “I love you, but you’re killing me here.”
I ignore her pressure to reply aloud. I have no idea how Lola will react to my indecision. She’s far more live-and-let-live than Harlow is and falls somewhere on the spectrum between Harlow and me in terms of comfort with casual sex. Because of this, and because none of us has ever had a spontaneous wedding to a man from another country—this really has to be funny someday—Lola is likely to be more measured in her responses, so I direct my answer to her.
“He says we could . . . stay married.” There. That seems a decent way to try it on.
Silence reverberates back to me.
“I knew it,” Harlow whispers.
Lola remains noticeably quiet.
“I wrote myself a letter before we did it,” I explain, wanting to tread carefully. Of anyone in the world, these two women want only what is good for me. But I don’t know whether it will hurt their feelings to learn how oddly safe I feel with Ansel.
“And?” Harlow prompts. “Mia, this is huge. You couldn’t have told us this first?”
“I know, I know,” I say, sinking back into my chair. “And I guess I told him, like, my entire life story.” They both know the significance of this and so they don’t comment, just wait for me to finish. “And I talked for what must have been hours. I didn’t stutter, I didn’t filter.”
“You did talk for a really long time.” Lola looks impressed.
Harlow’s eyes narrow. “You’re not seriously considering staying married,” she says, “to a stranger you met last night in Vegas and who lives over five thousand miles away.”
“Well, how can it not sound shady when you say it like that?”
“How would you like me to say it, Mia?” she shouts. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
Have I? Yes, absolutely. “I think I just need more time,” I tell her instead.
Harlow stands abruptly, looking around as if there is someone else in the lobby who can help convince her best friend that she’s lost the plot. Across from me, Lola simply studies my face, eyes narrowed. “Are you sure about this?” she asks.
I cough out a laugh. “I’m not sure about any of it.”
“But you know you don’t want to annul it right now?”
“He says he won’t annul it today anyway, that he promised me he wouldn’t.”
Her eyebrows disappear beneath her bangs and she leans back into her chair, surprised. “He promised you?”
“That’s what he said. He said I made him swear.”
“This is the most ridicul—” Harlow starts, but Lola interrupts her.
“Well, the guy just won some points with me, then.” She blinks away, and reaches to put a calming hand on Harlow’s forearm. “Let’s go, sweets. Mia, we’ll be back in a little bit to pack up and head home, okay?”
“Are you kidding me? We—” Harlow starts, but Lola levels her with a look. “Fine.”
In the distance and through a set of glass doors, I see Oliver and Finn, waiting for them near the taxi stand. Ansel is nowhere in sight.
“Okay, good luck getting unmarried,” I say with a little smile.
“You’re lucky I love you,” Harlow calls over her shoulder, chestnut hair flying around her as Lola drags her away. “Otherwise I would murder you.”
THE LOBBY SEEMS too quiet in their wake, and I look around, wondering if Ansel is watching from some dark corner, seeing that I haven’t gone along. But he isn’t in the lobby. I have no idea where he is. He’s the only reason I stayed back. Even if I had his number, I don’t have my phone. Even if I had my phone, I have no idea where I left my charger. Drunk me definitely needs to keep better track of things.
So I do the only thing I can think of: I head upstairs to the hotel room, to shower again and pack, to try to make some sense out of this mess.
One step inside and flashes of the night before seem to invade the room. I close my eyes to dig deeper, hungry for more details.
His hands on my ass, my breasts, my hips. The thick drag of him along my inner thigh. His mouth fastened to my neck, sucking a bruise into the skin.
My thoughts are interrupted by a quiet knock on the door.
Of course it’s him, looking freshly showered and just as conflicted as I feel. He moves past me, into the room, and sits at the edge of the bed.
He rests his elbows on his knees and looks up at me through hair that has fallen into his eyes. Even partly filtered, they’re so expressive I feel gooseflesh break out along my arms.
Without preamble or warm-up, he says, “I think you should come to France for the summer.”
There are a thousand things I can say to address the absurdity of what he’s offering. For one, I don’t know him. Also, I don’t speak French. Tickets are ungodly expensive, and where would I live? What would I do all summer living with a stranger in France?
“I’m moving to Boston in a few weeks.”