I am fucked.

These are words I normally never say, never think. Even in the most painful, intense divorce litigation, I never flinch. I home in on the problem, disappear down a tunnel of alpha lawyer fucking awesome, because I am going to win this motherfucker. That is how I am. That is what I do.

And now, two goddamn wedding rings have thrown me so hard off my game I might as well pack the whole show up and head back to Chicago. I stand in the middle of the living room, the area around me looking like it’s been struck by a very angry whirlwind.

I’ve been a terrible goddamn best man. I abandon my friend at his own damn bachelor party to get laid. Admittedly, I’m not too sorry about that part, but it’s still a shitty thing to do. Then I spend most of the next day, the wedding day, running around the Strip looking for my almost wedding venue when I should’ve been sticking by Mike, helping him avoid Tyler’s ridiculous pep talks. And now, when I’ve just managed to struggle into my best man suit, barely ready for the ceremony in time, with my tie undone and my hair looking like something nested in it, I can’t find the specially engraved rings.

This is why I shouldn’t have sex. I should just develop a polyp of myself, cut it off my body, and then grow it so it can go off and help other people get divorced. I’ll loan it my best suit, hair gel, everything. The point is, no more sex. Ever.

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.”

“It is a big deal, Mike. I know how much those rings cost you. I’ll pay you back for it,” I mutter. It’ll suck to hell and back, but I’ll do it.

“Look, is this the most thrilling thing to hear on my wedding day? No,” Mike admits. “But you know what’s pretty damn thrilling? I’m getting married to the woman I love more than anything else in this world.” He says it slowly, like I’m an alien who’s only recently started learning English and he’s trying to instruct me. “I’ve got my best friends beside me. Even Tyler, overgrown toddler though he is, is important to me. This is what matters, man. Not the rings, or the venue, or the glow-in-the dark dildos from the girls’ bachelorette party.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Though I think Stacy snuck a couple into her luggage for the honeymoon.”

“I liked it better when you were mad at me,” I say, throwing up a little in my own mouth.

“I was never mad at you, Nate. I love you, asshole.” He slaps my shoulder. “Stacy will probably flip out a little more about this than me, but I know she’ll be okay. Because us being together is what we’ve both been waiting for and building up to.”

“How do you do it?” I ask him. I can’t stop myself; I have to know. “How do you know that this is the right thing? Besides the fact that you guys’ve been shacking up for the better part of a decade. And Stacy’s Alabama family wanted to take a shotgun to you five years back.”

“You forget the part where Uncle Aaron is actually packing heat at the ceremony.” Mike shrugs. “I don’t go in for a lot of flowery language, you know me. But how do you know you found the one?” He counts on his fingers. “You have more fun with her than you do on your own. Everything’s an adventure. You’re compatible in the ways that matter. The sex is hot. And you trust that she’ll be next to you, no matter what happens.” He shrugs. “That’s the reason to get married, man. That’s the only reason. I mean, now that we don’t have to marry for property or shit.”

“Stacy would probably be happy to bring a couple of goats into the household,” I say. “You know, for tradition’s sake.”

“I was thinking more a milk cow, but yeah. Same principle,” Mike replies.

I laugh a little, because who doesn’t love a good livestock joke? But I’m also thinking now. Because what Mike says about adventures, having fun, trust . . . . Every word he says projects Julia’s face even more into my mind.

During all my years with Phoebe, we made logical sense. We enjoyed the same movies, had the same job, liked the same things in bed. But there was always something missing, and when I look back now, I understand why she left. She wasn’t complete. Whole. She was content, maybe, but happy? Probably not.

For the first time, I realize it wasn’t about me not measuring up. It was about us being the wrong fit.

As much as she can infuriate me sometimes, I know that no one has been able to make me smile or laugh like Julia. Even if we hadn’t spent the day dealing with Elvis clones or fighting off pseudo Soviet kidnappers, it would’ve been fun.

I get a flash of a memory, the two of us in a café, probably way early this morning. We were laughing, and I remember the feeling I had in my gut. It was almost giddiness, a kind of relief. With Julia, there’s nothing to worry about. Even when we want to kill each other, it’s easy.

And I closed the door on our potential relationship. I shut down when we found out the certificates were false. I shut her out as fast as I could. There were excuses, in my own head, for why I was doing it. It didn’t seem like the right thing at the right time. After all, we live in different cities, different states. Who wants that kind of a negotiation headache after one night in Vegas? Absolutely no one.

Most of all, there was the fear of seeing the same disappointment in her eyes that I saw in Phoebe’s when it was over. I don’t want that pain ever again.

But what if it’s right? Isn’t it worth every pain if it’s right?

Shit. I sent her back to the hotel on her own.

But she didn’t seem all that interested in being married to me either. She could’ve said something, done something.

Maybe that was her grand romantic moment of waiting. Maybe she wanted me to sweep her off her feet, like the characters in her novels. And I didn’t measure up. Again. I had the chance, and I fucking fumbled the ball.

“You okay, dude? You’re looking a little glassy-eyed all of a sudden,” Mike says, sounding kind of worried.

I sigh, straighten my tie, and button my jacket. It’s show time. “We should probably be heading down. They don’t like for people to be late to the grand patio. At least, by they, I mean Stacy’s parents. They’re the ones who booked the venue.”

“Yeah, but my parents paid for the decorations and the lights. Pretty sure they rent everything by the hour, so we’d better move our asses,” Mike says.

We head in the elevator, ride down to the ground floor. My stomach’s still twisted in fucking knots. Though whether that’s because of the rings or Julia, I don’t have a clue.

We walk out, head right and run toward the patio. I can see a couple of Stacy’s bridesmaids headed that way as well. Their pale purple taffeta dresses blow around in the hot desert wind as we get outside. I should be doing normal bachelor best man shit, scoping out their asses, trying to figure out which one’ll be open to fucking in the veranda after the ceremony. But I’m just not into it.

Because they’re not Julia. She’s not standing there at the entrance to the patio, wearing a pretty yellow dress, her hair done up and the rings in her hands and—

Actually, that is exactly what’s happening. All of it. I run up to her, every muscle in my body awake and alert. She looks up at me. A strand of her hair floats across her mouth. I want to pull it away, slow and sexy like, and ask—

“Do you guys want to get married today or what?” Julia says breathlessly, looking over my shoulder at Mike. “If so, I got what you need. And for the right price, it can be yours.”

She holds out her hand, the golden rings glinting in the fading sunlight. She smiles at me, but her eyes dart away fast. She doesn’t want to act like she sees me; probably doesn’t want to make things more awkward than I left them. I take the rings from her, wanting to sound collected, like I’ve got my shit together.

Instead, “I thought I was going to pass out.” I clear my throat. Idiot. “Where were these bad boys?” I sound much better, cool, unruffled. Like it’s every day that I leave my best friend’s wedding rings in . . . the strip club?

“The café at the Venetian. We got some killer croissants at some point between bird-napping and the fountain.”

“We washed our hands before we ate, right?”

That’s not a joke; my stomach just rippled at the thought.

Julia shrugs. “Let’s hope we remember. Or maybe, let’s hope we don’t.”

“There you are!” Stacy runs at us, looking admittedly stunning in her strapless wedding dress. Her veil floats behind her, and I think I can actually see cartoon hearts in Mike’s eyes. Stacy hugs Julia, then looks at me. “I didn’t know where you were! What is this?”

“We, ah, that is, I,” I stammer, trying to think of a way to spin this. Mike’s no fucking help, still sitting there in a Vegas fairy tale staring at his perfect soon-to-be wife.

“You saved the wedding, didn’t you?” Stacy asks Julia, taking the rings. “You’re my hero, lady. Great job, Nate.” She winks at me, clearly not mad, and hands them back. “Hold onto these for the next fifteen minutes. Can you do it?”

“Yes,” I say, feeling chastened. She’s got a right to tease.

“You. You’re going to be in the wedding,” she says, pulling at Julia and practically dragging her behind. Julia almost trips on the bridal train.

Good, because I wasn’t sure how else this was going to be fucking ridiculous.

“Do I get a choice?” Julia asks, throwing a glance over her shoulder at me. Does she want a rescue? Or maybe she wants to make sure I’m following.

I don’t want that idea to please me as much as it does.

“Only thing is you have to be on the groom’s side. Tyler just came down with a raging case of stomach sickness. Last I heard, he was throwing up everything he ever ate.” Stacy sighs. “I was going to get Uncle Aaron to stand in his place, but he’d insist on keeping his Uzi strapped to his back. I’d prefer someone without ammunition.”

“Tyler’s sick? What happened?” I ask, alarmed.

Stacy laughs, airily waving her hand. “His sugar mamma took him to get oysters. Apparently one of them disagreed with him.”

Julia Stevens and her friends: the source of all my frustration and happiness on this trip.

As the afternoon slides into evening, we get into our positions and walk up the aisle. A singer is crooning at the microphone, there are rose petals scattered at our feet as we walk up to the rabbi, then move to the side.

Soon, we’re standing next to each other, Julia right up beside me. I can smell her perfume, and it’s intoxicating. Everyone settles down and waits. A moment later, Stacy walks up the aisle on her father’s arm, beaming at everyone.

And all I want to do is reach out, just put a hand through the air, and touch Julia. I want to feel the strap of her dress, the smooth skin underneath.

But I can’t. Because this is someone else’s wedding. And I can’t say a fucking thing.