Page 21 of Fake Out Hearts

After my bags finally show up, we rush outside to the ride share area and load into another Uber. The driver smirks at us in the rearview when he sees where we’re heading.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had one of these. Congratulations,” he says, and Becca smiles nervously.

The closer we get to the chapel, the realer it gets that we’re doing this. Thankfully, the ride isn’t long, so neither of us have time to psyche ourselves out about it. What’s funny is that, of the two of us, Becca seems to be way calmer about the whole thing now. It’s like we flipped roles or something.

The driver parks on the curb outside a chapel that’s somehow even smaller than it looked in the photos online. If I hadn’t already looked it up, I probably never would’ve noticed it tucked into a grove of trees next to an empty parking lot—the mostVegas thing in the world. The little brown building has one steeple that doesn’t even reach past the trees beside it, and the place looks like it can’t hold more than maybe fifty people.

“It’s adorable,” Becca says as we climb out of the car, and if she’s happy, that’s all that matters to me. I lug all my bags out of the trunk and hike them up on the curb, then follow her to the door. I keep expecting some cheesy Elvis impersonator to pop out to greet us, but no one does, so I check my phone and see we’re about thirty minutes early.

“I guess we should probably get changed,” I say, and Becca spins on her heel to face me.

“Does that mean it’s surprise time?” she asks, glancing at my duffel bag. I grin and nod.

“It does. This isn’t exactly traditional wedding garb, but we aren’t exactly doing a traditional wedding either, so I think it fits,” I say and hoist the bag up to unzip it.

I pull out one of my jerseys and shake it to unfold it, and Becca stares at it for a second before she walks over to run her hands across the silky material.

“I know Kaplan didn’t like you wearing his jersey because it was too baggy and ‘unflattering’ on you, but I also know that Kaplan is a fucking dick, so I thought you’d look much better in mine,” I say.

Becca bites back a smile, a gorgeous blush climbing up her cheeks. “It’s perfect.”

She takes the jersey from me and pulls it over her head. It’s obviously not the first time I’ve seen her wearing a hockey jersey, but when she turns around to pull her wavy dark hair up through the jersey’s neck hole, I see “CAMDEN” etched across her back for a second before her hair drapes over it. The sight of my name on her back stirs something inside me. Something possessive and protective that I can’t remember feeling for a long time.

Becca faces me again, still beaming, and with the bright desert sun streaming through the trees down on her beautiful face, she looks even more flawless than usual. She has a glow to her, a radiance, that makes it hard to focus on anything else in my view.

Holy shit. I’m really about to marry this woman.

Even though we’re only a matter of minutes away from sealing the deal, it still doesn’t feel real. But when the door to the chapel opens and, of course, out steps a badly-dressed Elvis impersonator, it gets real fast. I shake my head to clear it and take a deep breath before offering Becca my hand and one last grin.

“You ready to be my wife?” I ask, and she drags in a deep breath and lets it out in a long, slow exhale before reaching for my hand.

“Let’s do it.”

Chapter 8

Becca

As soon as Theo’s hand touches mine, an electric shock of awareness courses up my arm. It’s such a simple gesture, but it’s intimate at the same time, and my heart starts pounding in response.

Oh my god. We’re doing this. We’re really getting married.

Even as we’re walking toward the chapel entrance with an Elvis impersonator escorting us, it’s still hard to believe. Barely more than twenty-four hours ago, Shawn and I were still a couple, and I didn’t have the faintest clue he was going to break up with me. Or that my whole life was going to turn upside down overnight.

The fake Elvis, complete with a sequined jacket and over-sprayed pompadour, is giving us a very fast, very “fine print at the end of a TV ad” explanation of how the whole ceremony is going to work, but I can’t process any of it. All I can focus on is the feeling of my hand in Theo’s because it’s the only thing keeping me from floating away like a kid’s balloon animal.

And then we’re stepping inside, and I feel like I’m watching it all play out from outside myself, like I’m seated in the tiny wooden pews. Everything is in place, perfectly set up and picturesque. There’s an old chandelier hanging from the A-frame ceiling, flanked by two large candelabras on the floor. A woman sits with her back to us at an ancient looking organ, and the Elvis impersonator has already taken his place beside her on the altar.

Wait, is he officiating?

I have to bite back a laugh because it strikes me just how ridiculous all of this is. I mean, I’m wearing a hockey jersey to my wedding and Theo’s still in street clothes. I never imagined my first trip to Vegas would be to marry a stranger. But what’s more ridiculous, tying the knot with someone I just met for a green card or staying with an abusive asshole for the same reason? As crazy as it is, I still somehow believe I’m doing the right thing because this is going to unlock a whole new world for me.

But then the organ strikes the opening chords to “Here Comes the Bride,” and I snap back into my body. Theo flashes me a grin, and all I can do is smile back. I told him I wouldn’t leave him at the altar, and I meant it, but my heart slams against my chest with every step I take closer to Elvis.

We reach the altar long before the song is over, and there isn’t another soul in the chapel, but Elvis still throws his hands wide like he’s performing for a sold-out audience anyway as the song comes to an end. He flashes me a toothy grin and a cliché wink.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we gather here today to join in holy matrimony…” he starts, then pauses to glance at a small slip of paper in his hand. “Theo Camden and Becca Summers.”

Theo snorts, and I can’t help joining him because it’s such a stark reminder of how slapdash this whole thing is. We booked this appointment not even an hour ago, and it was so sudden that the officiant didn’t even have time to memorize our names. But he’s clearly done this thousands of times because he recites the rest of his spiel from memory.

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