Page 92 of Stick Fight

“I don't get it,” I mutter, my head pounding. “The sash, the ring…”

“You guys were just messing around,” Rip says. “You thought it looked fun. You were hammered and hurting, man. I made sure it didn’t happen for real.”

A rush of shame sweeps through me. “Jesus, Rip,” I whisper. “What the hell would I do without you?”

He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Come on. Right now, you need sleep, buddy.”

“No.” I grab his jacket, my grip desperate. “I need to find Gabby. Help me,” I beg.

Rip hesitates as he glances down the hall, security running past us as alarms sound. “I...I think she’s already gone.” Panic claws up my throat. I tighten my grip on his jacket.

“I know what she thinks she saw. But she’s wrong.”

“Just like you were wrong about her,” Rip tells me gently.

The words hit like a punch to the gut. I think back to the pictures. Gabby and Cass. I didn’t ask. I didn’t trust. I just...assumed. Christ, I didn’t even believe my own truth—that social media was a joke. Meanwhile, Gabby likely saw the pictures of Avery and me, and she didn’t assume the worst, until she walked in on a drunk, laughing, fake marriage that seemed far too real.

God, what have I done?

I press my palms into my eyes, trying to block out the ache.

“Why didn’t I trust her?” I whisper.

Rip's voice is low, rough with experience. “Childhood fucks us up, buddy.”

I nod, swallowing hard, knowing he's not wrong, knowing he gets it in a way few people could.

“Come on,” Rip says, pulling me to my feet. “Let’s go fix this.”

Avery jogs back toward us, bottles of water in hand. I down one like my life depends on it, forcing myself to focus, towake the hell up.

We head down the hall, past the maintenance workers blocking the exits. No choice but to push through the crowded, neon-lit strip out front. Fireworks explode overhead, blinding bursts of color lighting up the night.

“I don't know if we're going to find her,” Avery says, glancing around. “Have you tried texting?”

Shit no. Why didn’t I think of texting her?

Oh, maybe because panic and alcohol are a bad combination.

I fumble for my phone with shaky hands and shoot off a message.

Me:Gabby, are you here in Vegas? If that was you…it’s not what you think.

The second I hit send, I sag back against a building, chest heaving, palms braced on my thighs. Where could she have gone? The airport? Back to Boston? No.If she thought I’d gotten married, why would she head back there? Maybe she’s gone to her parents’ house. The one place she never wanted to be. I rake a hand through my hair, panicked. If I only had Cass’s number. Maybe hewould know where she went.

“We need to find Maeve,” I say, pushing off the wall. “She might know something. They’ve gotten close.” Rip falls into step beside me, and we hustle back inside. But the reception hall is a ghost town, chairs stacked, tables stripped bare, the music long gone silent. Most of the guests have already crashed for the night, getting ready to catch flights back home in the morning.

I think about texting Maeve or Tanner…but then stop myself. It’s their first real getaway without Stella.

Don't ruin it for them. Don’t be that guy.

A casual run-in would be better. Natural. Easy. Not a 2AM SOS text. Rip claps a heavy arm around my shoulders. “I think you need to call it a night, bud. We’ll fix this. I promise.”

I want to argue. I want to keep searching. But the exhaustion, the gut-wrenching panic, finally wins. I head to my room and fall into bed. The next thing I know it’s morning and I wake with my skull splitting in two. My first instinct is to grab my phone. No new messages.

Goddammit.

I text Gabby again.

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