Page 1 of Merlot Marriage

Ophie

A Vegas hangover, plusplane turbulence, equals me reaching for my seat belt every ten seconds, contemplating if I need to make a run for the bathroom to puke my guts up.

I’m not sure how much of the nausea is from alcohol and how much is from the knowledge that, when this plane lands, the timer starts on getting my adult life together. In eight weeks, I’ll graduate with my master’s and run out of excuses not to decide what I want to be when I grow up.

I suppose twenty-six is pushing it, but really, my prefrontal cortex has only just finished cooking. I’m a baby adult who probably still needs adultier-adult supervision.

I definitely needed it this week.

To my right, Sydney groans, just as hungover as I am. I wasn’t sure about having my future sister-in-law crash my last college spring break. But she needed a break from work, and I thoughtI needed a partner in non-crime. Joke’s on me—Sydney could drink a frat boy under the table.

How she managed to drink three of those foot-long margaritas while walking down the Strip without even a single stumble is still beyond me. I drank half of one and could barely keep my eyes from crossing.

“I am definitely going to puke when we get off this plane.”

Maybe Sydney isn’t as tough as I thought. Her moaned words give me hope that I’m not the least cool person in this group.

I am one hundred percent the least cool person on this trip, but at least I’m not the only one with a hangover from hell.

“Don’t be such babies,” Cassie says, reaching her fingers through the gap in our seats to poke my arm. “But if I ever suggest a Vegas trip again, I give you all permission to dunk my head in a toilet. Actually, I may do it myself so I can puke in peace.”

Beside her, her sister Heather and our friend Morgan groan in agreement from the row behind us. We wanted to combine successfully defending our theses, our last spring break of grad school, and Cassie’s bachelorette. Theoretically a great idea. However, based on our current state of being, twenty-six is too old for four straight days of debauchery in Sin City.

“Ach, man, my head feels like it weighs a hundred kilos,” my other seatmate groans from my left. Philip lets out a deep sigh as he rests his head on my shoulder. His South African accent soothes my frayed nerves, but his warm breath on my neck does nothing for the roiling in my stomach. Neither does the dim memory of two nights ago that I’ve been avoiding ever since it happened.

“I wish we’d had time for real coffee this morning. Whose idea was it to take such an early morning flight?” Sydney leans her head against the window and closes her eyes. “Wake me up if they come around for drinks.”

Blocking out the piercing overhead light, I close mine too, willing myself to lose consciousness. Anything to bring this trip to an end and let me go back to my nice, quiet life.

Correction: my quiet, lonely, anxiety-filled life.

“You smell lekker, Ophie,” Philip mutters. “Like flowers and…I don’t know.” His voice trails off as he nuzzles deeper into my neck. He is always this touchy, I remind myself. No one will suspect anything.

“Are you still drunk?” I whisper, praying that Sydney is asleep and not listening.

He lifts a hand, his thumb and pointer finger half an inch apart. “Little bit.”

“How drunk have you been this week? I thought…” I tip my head back, dislodging his from my shoulder. Panic joins the party in my intestinal tract, and I glance down at the seat’s back pocket, searching for a puke bag.

He rolls his head to the side to eye me. “Sober enough, yeah?”

Sober enough.

So was I.

Neither of us can use the excuse of being too drunk to remember sneaking away from our friends and showing up at the little chapel on the Strip.

Have I made the biggest mistake of my life?

Philip is still staring at me, his ocean blues disconcertingly close. Instead of answering his implied question, I flip my hood over my head and settle back into my seat, ignoring his adorably rumpled face and hair.

There’s shifting to either side of me as Philip lifts the armrest between us and Sydney adjusts her legs. Then my head is pulled down on his shoulder. “Have a nap, liefling. I’ll wake you just now.”

Blessed unconsciousness takes me as Philip’s cologne drifts into my nose.

I spend the two-and-a-half-hour flight home to Portland dozing against his shoulder—too tired to keep my eyes open but too awake to sleep deeply. Philip mutters Afrikaans nonsense above me. I have no idea what he’s saying, but the lilting words sound so close to English, it feels like Ishould. Fitting, really, that the blur of our Vegas trip stays surreal until the end.

Like it was all a lucid dream of drinking, dancing, eating, and lying by the pool.

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