Warren straightens and puts an arm around her shoulders—both of them wearing huge, matching grins.
I point between them. “You two . . . you got married?”
He nods. “I figured if Vegas was a good enough place for my cousin to tie the knot, it’s good enough for me.” His gaze shifts to Lily adoringly. “When you find someone this amazing—when you know it’s the real thing—you don’t let it pass you by.”
I squint. “Married?”
Lily nods enthusiastically. “At the Drive-Through Wedding Chapel. We took some great pictures. And now I’m Mrs. Billy Warren.”
Nope, still can’t wrap my head around it. “Married? Really?”
Warren’s expression goes from sappy to annoyed. “Yeah, Long Duck Fuckin’ Dong—married. What’s your problem?”
It finally sinks in. Donkey Dick married Shower Girl. But more important:
I. Didn’t. Screw her.
Cue the chorus of angels. Ahhh-le-luia, ahhh-le-luia, alleluia, alleluia, ah-leee-luia . . .
I didn’t mess up. I didn’t betray Kate or ruin our son’s life or destroy everything we have. Overcome with emotion, I may actually weep with relief.
But I don’t cry. I do something much, much worse. I stand up and hug Billy Warren. “I love you, man.”
Yes, the stress of the last few minutes has finally driven me over the edge. We embrace for a second before he pushes me back, holds me at arm’s length, and looks at me with confused brown eyes.
“Dude,” he utters disgustedly.
I come to my senses. And shake my muddled head. “Sorry, I just . . . I’m so happy for you.”
Translation? I’m over-fucking-joyed for me. And that he married a woman who looks freakishly identical to Kate?
Nope—don’t even care.
I give his back a congratulatory smack. “You and . . .” I . . . pat her head. “Both of you. Congratulations.”
Then I realize I still have no idea where the hell Kate is. I hook my thumb toward the door. “I gotta go.”
As fast as my feet can carry me, I dash out the door.
Stepping out of the bedroom into the living area feels similar to when Dorothy stepped out of her dilapidated house into Oz. Everything is too bright, too colorful . . . too loud.
Matthew and Delores sit close together on the couch, under a beige blanket, sharing a bowl of cereal and watching Gilligan’s Island on TV. Matthew chuckles at the television before Dee feeds him a scoop of Froot Loops.
As I step into the room, Matthew’s attention turns to me. “You’re alive.”
Delores is disappointed. “Damn it. I was hoping we’d have to get your stomach pumped.”
Matthew tugs her strawberry-blond ponytail and tells her firmly, “I told you to be nice from now on. Cut that shit out.”
When he turns back to me, Delores sticks her tongue out at him.
The ecstatic adrenaline rush from learning I did not actually put my dick in a * that wasn’t Kate’s is starting to wear off. My head and stomach resume the nauseating symphony of a mighty hangover.
I rub my temples and inform Matthew and Dee, “You know Billy got married last night?”
In unison, they respond wearily, “Yep.”
“To a stripper he’s known for less than twenty-four hours?”
“Yep.”
Though I think I already know the answer, I ask the third-stupidest question ever: “Did he get her to sign a prenup?”
Delores scoffs, “I’m not sure my cousin knows how to spell prenup.”
Thump.
Thump.
They seem way too calm about this development. “Why didn’t you stop him?”
Now Dee glares at me. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Matthew explains, “Drew, it was your idea.”
My face goes slack. “It was?”
“It was. After you woke up from your nosedive at the strip club, you went on and on about how great marriage is. How everyone should get fucking married. How love is a precious, beautiful flower, and marriage is the water and sunlight that helps it grow.”
I seriously need to never drink again. Ever.
“I said that?”
Matthew nods. “You were very poetic.”
“Shit. We should call Wilson—he’s the best divorce lawyer in New York City.” And an old colleague of my mother’s. “Maybe he can draft something that’ll work retroactively.”
Matthew takes another bite of cereal. “Already left him a message.”
Thump.
Thump.
My fingers move from my temples to my forehead, continuing to rub the torturous pounding. “What else am I missing?”
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Matthew asks.
“Um . . . playing poker with you and Steven at Paradise. Warren singing Barry Manilow onstage.”
My best friend laughs. “You’re missing a lot.” He sets the bowl of cereal down on the coffee table and elaborates. “Kate, Dee, Lexi, and Erin decided to crash our party and showed up at Paradise. After we left the police station—”
I cut him right off. “Why were we at the police station?”
“Because that’s where they take you when you get arrested.”
“We got arrested?”
He grins. “Oh, no—we didn’t get arrested.”
Dee raises her hand. “We did.”
My eyes go wide. “Kate was in jail?”