#010221

Peeling open an eyelid, you groan—the diffused light is too bright, the soft rustle of sheets is too loud, the sweet smell of cinnamon is too strong. As your eyelid snaps closed, you catch sight of dark wooden beams against a pale gray backdrop.

Before you have time to process the image, a sound like a freight train fills your ears, and you turn your head to see Dean roll onto his side with a loud grunting snore. The small movement makes you whine, every cell in your body crying out in agony.

What the hell happened to me? Why the hell is Dean in my bed? And just where the hell is that cinnamon smell coming from?

The floor to ceiling glass wall you are now staring through beyond the curve of his shoulder takes your breath away. The view of the setting sun and a private balcony pool surrounded by lush tropical plants does nothing to soothe the anxiety beginning to grow inside you.

Where the hell are we?

You’re afraid to move, but need to use the bathroom, so you carefully roll to the side and let your legs fall off the edge of the mattress, then push yourself upright, a small sob escaping with every flex of muscle. As soon as you stand up, your legs give way beneath you, and you land on the lush carpet with a thud. The soft fibers feel like tiny little bugs crawling over your skin; you shudder and beseech the universe to kill you now. As you lie there contemplating the life choices that led you here, a soft rush of cool air causes your skin to pebble as the air conditioning kicks on, bringing along the realization that you’re wearing nothing but your underwear.

Seriously, what the fuck happened?

With a soft groan, you extend your arm and grip the bedding, using it to pull yourself up slowly. You peer at Dean’s shirtless back over the edge of the mattress, leaving you with the assumption that he is either sleeping in his boxers or is naked. Either way, it’s not good. Eyes darting around the room, you find a trail of your and Dean’s clothes leading from the door to the bed.

The hammering in your head increases as your heart pounds against your ribcage. Having sex with Dean was something you swore to yourself would never happen. One, he’s your best friend, and B, you promised yourself that you wouldn’t become another name in the long list of women he’d slept with. You love the man dearly but are well aware of his reluctance of settling down with anyone for fear of putting them in harm’s way. You’re also quite aware of the consequences of pursuing anything further than the close friendship you currently enjoyed; it would lead to nothing but heartbreak.

Damn, this is bad.

You rest your forehead on the mattress and silently pray that your assumption is wrong. Moments later, it feels like some alien creature is literally trying to claw its way out of your abdomen, and you stumble to the bathroom just in time to empty the entire contents of your stomach into the toilet.

Tears seep from your eyes when the dry heaves set in; you’d gladly suffer the pain of torture at a demon’s hand to be rid of this hangover. The cool tile helps to diminish the heat of your flushed skin as you lie on the floor after your body finally stops retching. The smell of cinnamon drifts past your nose again, and you realize that it’s coming from an automatic room freshener.

Several minutes later, you roll to your back, and when the room, thankfully, remains still, you carefully sit up. Eventually, you manipulate your aching body to stand in front of the vanity, squinting at your reflection as you lean against the sink. Tiny black flecks of mascara speckle the dark circles under your eyes; your hair is plastered to your head on the left side and sticking up in every direction possible on the right. Smacking your dry lips together and gagging at the taste on your tongue, you reach for the small bottle of complimentary mouthwash and rinse out your mouth.

The fluffy, grey washcloth is soft to the touch when you pull it from the rack to wet it under the hot water. Covering your face with the cloth, you tilt your head back, quickly gripping the sink’s edge when vertigo sets in. Once the dizziness passes, you slide the cloth down your face and catch a bright flash in the reflection from the mirror. Cleaning the gunk and remaining makeup from around your eyes, you drop the cloth to the counter and gape at the peridot and diamond-encrusted silver band encircling the ring finger of your left hand. The sound that fills the air seconds later is almost inhuman.

Holymotherfuckingsonofabitch! No, no, no… is this… Damn, it’s gorgeous! Okay, nope, focus!

Yanking one of the robes from a hook on the wall, you slip your arms through the sleeves as you rush back into the bedroom. Now lying on his stomach, Dean is no longer snoring but is still sound asleep; the sheet has slipped down his body with his movements.

You’d always found his broad shoulders with their dusting of freckles captivating and openly admired them whenever you had the rare opportunity; this time was no different. Taking a calming breath, you stare at the beautiful speckles dotting his smooth pale skin, following the valley of his spine to the tight shapely curve of his cloth-covered ass.

Oh! He’s still in his boxers. That’s a good sign, right?

With a relieved sigh, you pull your eyes away from him and take a look around the room that appears to be more of a large suite. It’s quite stunning—pale grey walls trimmed in dark wood, exposed-beam ceiling, expensive-looking artwork, furniture covered in deep burgundy leather and plush fabric—there’s even a poker table that seats six. A ginormous stuffed turtle stares back at you from its perch on one of the barstools across the room. Its existence presents yet another mystery to solve. Any other time, you would take the opportunity to bask in the luxury surrounding you, but right now, you’re more concerned with how you got here and why you were practically naked in bed with Dean and wearing what appears to be a wedding ring.

Walking through the space, you begin to gather up the articles of clothing that had apparently been stripped off as the two of you had made your way into the room and find a piece of paper lying beneath Dean’s flannel. You stoop to retrieve it, and a loud gasp escapes you as you turn it over and read ‘State of Nevada Marriage Certificate’ across the top. The clothes slip from your grasp when your eyes land on the signatures, one in your fluid cursive and the other in Dean’s neat print above your typed names… your real names.

Son of a bitch!

Shaking uncontrollably, you plop down on top of the clothes you’d abandoned. Your fingers timorously graze the document, hoping it’s just an illusion that will vanish under your touch. The pads of your fingers trace the raised lettering of the official seal, and your heart drops to your stomach as your brain kicks into overdrive. It was official; you and Dean were married—married. Legally, too; you had both used your real names and had an official marriage certificate. When the hell you had managed to get that, you had no idea. You didn’t even remember getting married.

Where the hell was Sam while all this happened? Why didn’t he stop us?

Swiftly standing, you brace a hand against the wall as a wave of dizziness hits you. A couple of deep breaths later, you search for your phone only to find that the battery had died. Dean’s had, too, since you hadn’t returned to your rooms in what was almost 24 hours now.

Not ready to face Dean just yet, you leave him to continue sleeping as you slip out onto the balcony. You sit at the pool’s edge and dangle your feet in the warm water, the open robe hanging loosely on your shoulders. Small waves ripple across the water’s surface as you gently kick your legs and let your mind drift to try to piece together the events that led to this trainwreck.

With no forthcoming cases or looming apocalypses, Dean had declared that it was the perfect time for the annual Winchester brother’s road trip to Vegas, and this time, they invited you to come along for the ride. To say that you were excited was a gross understatement. In the five years you’d known them, they’d never invited you. Dean was the one that insisted that you join them for this trip, which was a bit strange, but you weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It was only about an eight-hour drive from Grand Junction, CO, where you all had just taken down a pack of werewolves. You’d left the next morning and had arrived in Vegas around six-thirty that night. Dean had made sure that you had a separate room when checking into one of the older, less expensive casino hotels on the outskirts of town. His behavior once again struck you as odd when you had argued that there was no need for the extra expense, that the money spent on the additional room could be used for gambling. He was adamant, though, so you had finally conceded, secretly happy to have some privacy for once.

Dean found a safe spot to leave Baby—an empty corner of the parking lot—and Sam made arrangements for an Uber to pick you up in an hour. After taking a shower and changing into the dress clothes you always packed—just in case—you met the boys outside your room where your ride was already waiting. Both boys stood by the curb in fresh clothes and with damp hair, freshly showered. Dean’s hair was still spiky from towel-drying it, and he was wearing one of your favorite shirts, the black and white plaid. He’d left the top two buttons undone, and you caught a glimpse of his tattoo as he moved to open the car door for you. He was stunning. Just the sight of him kicked your pulse up a couple of notches, and you quickly turned toward the car before he could notice your ogling.

The driver had dropped the three of you off on Fremont Street. Both Dean and Sam made a beeline for the Paradise Buffet & Café while you trailed behind, taking in the neon spectacle of the Fremont Street Experience. It had been years since you’d been to Vegas, and a lot had changed.

A few minutes later, you’d caught up with the brothers, having decided it was probably best to eat something before all the drinking began. An hour later, you and Sam left Dean to finish his fourth round at the buffet, stopping to take a few pictures before starting your Vegas adventure at Binion’s Gambling Hall.

Your little trio had spent the next three hours or so hitting most of the casinos on Fremont Street. The winnings between all of you had remained relatively modest, as most of the big gambling was saved for The Strip. When you eventually made it to Caesars Palace, Dean abandoned you and Sam to take up residence at one of the poker tables.

Sam wasn’t as keen on gambling as Dean, so the two of you had wandered around the casino just taking in your surroundings and enjoying the free drinks—you played a couple of rounds of Keno, and Sam tried his hand at Baccarat. When he found a set of available slot machines next to each other, he asked if you wanted to sit down for a while, and you gratefully accepted, the shoes you’d chosen to wear already beginning to cause you pain.

Although you should be used to it by now, the juxtaposition in energy when you’d spend one-on-one time with either brother still managed to surprise you. With Dean, there always seemed to be an underlying current of electricity, a raw energy much like the crackling air before lightning strikes. Sam, however, was the calm before the storm; he was a constant, soothing presence. Even amidst the noise of whirring machines and clanging bells, the two of you sat quietly next to each other, peacefully pulling the handles of your slot machines. That was until Sam broke the companionable silence with a surprising question.

“Have you ever thought about getting out of the life, maybe settling down?”

Your hand stilled mid-pull as you cocked your head in his direction. Convinced that the amount of alcohol you had consumed had skewed your hearing, you ask, “Sam, did you just ask me if I want to get married?”

The look of utter panic on Sam’s face had you leaning to the side with laughter, and he’d gently gripped your arm to keep you from sliding off the chair. “I- I didn’t mean to me,” he’d sputtered. “I just meant, in general.” He let go of your arm after making sure you weren’t going to fall out of the chair.

Pushing out your bottom lip, you’d pouted, “What? I’m not good enough for Sam fucking Winchester to marry?”

The look he’d given you almost rivaled the bitchface he generally reserved for Dean. “No. That’s not what I meant.”

You playfully punched him in the shoulder and laughed, “I was only teasing, you big lug.”

He rolled his shoulders and let out an exasperated sigh. When he fell silent again, you snuck a glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He seemed to be debating whether to say anything further, but he remained silent and went back to playing slots.

The atmosphere around the two of you felt awkward, so you decided to break the silence. “Hey, is there a reason you asked me that? Are you thinking about it? Have you met someone I don’t know about?”

He brushed his hair behind his ear and turned to you. “No. I think maybe I’ve had a little too much to drink and was just curious.”

You knew Sam well enough to know that he had a reason for asking you but apparently didn’t want to share any details at the time.

“Yeah, I have.” You shrugged when he looked at you in surprise. “I don’t think I could ever leave the life completely, but yeah, it would be nice to settle down one day.”

He nodded, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a small smirk, before turning back to the machine in front of him. Everything had seemingly gone back to normal as you sat in comfortable silence once more, teasing each other now and then. It was all very odd, but you figured it was like Sam had said, the alcohol made the two of you feel a little looser, maybe a bit more sentimental.

Sam had bowed out and gone back to the hotel about half an hour later—around 3 a.m.—having won a few hundred dollars at the slot machine.

That was the cause of this runaway train… Sam had left you and Dean to your own devices. And nothing good happens past 2 a.m.

You were feeling rather tipsy at that point and knew it wouldn’t be any fun gambling alone, so you’d set out in search of Dean. He tried to brush you off at first, but once he’d lost his third hand in a row, you were able to convince him to join you.

Much to his dismay, you dragged him to the roulette table. He argued that there was no skill needed to play the game and that you would surely lose everything you bet and then some. You, however, liked the thrill of leaving it all up to luck, merely choosing a color and number. When your winnings had reached a little over two hundred and fifty grand, he profusely apologized, pulling you in for a tight hug and a lingering kiss to your cheek.

That was the first sign of real danger… that kiss. You could still feel the sensation of those soft, supple lips on your cheek.

Trying to hide your reaction to his display of affection, you had laughed and told him that he must be your good luck charm. He agreed and placed a kiss near your temple, lingering a little longer than necessary there, too. Flustered and not sure what to do next, you decided to take your winnings and move on.

Dean wanted to head back to the poker tables, but you talked him into playing Blackjack, where he racked up an impressive sum of two hundred and forty-five grand. When you begged him to leave, telling him you had a gut feeling that the next hand wasn’t going to play out in his favor, he had laughed, saying that you just didn’t want him to beat your winnings, but he lowered his wager for the next round, which he’d lost.

He’d turned to face you and, upon seeing your smug expression, had doubled over in laughter, almost falling out of his chair. Lacing the fingers of both his hands with yours, he’d pulled you in between his thick thighs and whispered in your ear, “Guess we are each other’s good luck charms.”

You remember thinking that his voice had been deep and flirty, the voice he used when trying to pick up some random girl in a bar. You were reasonably drunk at that point, and you’d felt overwhelmed with emotion; you’d turned your head, the scruff on his jaw gently scraping along your cheekbone, and placed a kiss on his cheek. When he’d asked what that was for, you’d said it was a thank you for letting you come along.

His breath was hot against your skin and smelled pleasantly of the expensive whiskey he’d been drinking when he’d rasped, “Let’s get out of here.”

And that was when the train derailed. It was also the last thing you clearly remembered other than Dean and you signing the necessary paperwork for your winnings, only taking a few thousand in cash. Sometime after that, the train had apparently flown entirely off the track and promptly down a steep embankment.

“Hair of the dog?” Dean asks as he comes to stand next to you. Deep in thought, you hadn’t heard him open the sliding doors. When you turn your head to look up at him, you come face to crotch with an impressive bulge.

Quickly dropping your chin, you huff, “For fuck’s sake, Dean; you could have at least put on a robe.” At the mention of a robe, you realize that the one you’re wearing isn’t covering much and quickly gather the fabric around you and tie the belt to keep it in place.

Dean laughs as he plops down next to you, bumping your shoulder with his. “Not anything either one of us hasn’t seen before.” Sliding his legs into the water, he starts to gently kick in time with you. He raises both hands, a bottle of whiskey in one and two bottles of water in the other.

“Give me the water, jackass.” Dean sets the whiskey next to him and hands over a water bottle. “Thank you.”

“Here.” He flattens his palm to reveal the pain relievers he’s also holding, and you accept three of them with a grateful smile before washing them down with a couple of sips of water.

Popping the remaining pills in his mouth, he opens the other water bottle and guzzles it down in a few large gulps.

The two of you silently watch the sun make its final descent over the horizon as you lean against one another. The Vegas skyline’s stunning lights begin to brighten, and you wave your hand to indicate the suite around you and break the silence. “Dean, what are we doing here? What happened after we left Caesars?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he softly replies, “You don’t remember?” His voice is rough, raspier than usual, like he’d been yelling for an extended period. Typically, you’d find it sexy as hell, but right now, it grates along your frayed nerve endings like sandpaper.

“No. I’ve been trying to piece it together.” You try for something maybe a little more specific. “Giant stuffed sea turtle?”

“Circus Circus?”

You nod, the memory slipping forward. The two of you had been strolling down the Midway, Dean’s arm around your shoulders, keeping you close amid the throng of tourists; the closeness also helping to keep both of you upright. You had squealed like a toddler at the sight of the turtle, and Dean had magnanimously vowed to win it for you by playing darts.

“Do you remember where we went after that?”

You shake your head in response just as another memory begins to swirl around the edges of your mind; Dean is yelling at you, wait, no, cheering for you. Something about a cow, no… a bull.

Oh, wow.

“Dean, do you remember riding a mechanical bull?”

“Uhmm…,”  he scrubs a hand down his face, “... yeah, yeah, I do. You did too, didn’t you?” A small laugh escapes his lips. “You did pretty well, but I was better; I stayed on the entire time,” he proudly declares.

Ignoring the arch of his eyebrow and arrogant smirk, you try to bring the memory into focus. “Gilley’s Saloon. That’s like almost five miles total, which means we didn’t walk.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t wear my hunting boots.” You tilt your head toward the front door of the suite. “There’s no way I’d walk five miles in those shoes.”

“I could have carried you.”

The look of disbelief you give him actually hurts your face.

“What? I’ve given you piggyback rides before,” he shrugs.

“Not for five miles, when we were obviously drunk out of our minds!” Another memory flashes in your mind. “Oh. A limo… we had a limo. The concierge from Caesars—Tom, no, Tony—he got us a car.” But that’s it; nothing else is forthcoming. Frustrated, you rub small circles into the skin at your temples.

“Uh, Y/N?” Dean grips your left hand, pointedly looking at the ring on your finger. “You’re wearing a wedding ring.”

With a beleaguered sigh, you whisper, “Apparently.” Rising to stand, you tug at Dean’s hand, indicating he should follow you.

He slowly rises to his feet, careful not to slip on the wet tile. “What’s up?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Squeezing his hand, you pull him along as you walk back into the suite. “Come on; there’s something you should see.”

Once inside, you let go of his hand and plop down onto the buttery soft leather couch, while Dean slumps into one of the overstuffed chairs opposite you. After taking one more look at the paper lying on the table, you slowly slide it over to him.

Dean’s brows furrow before rising in shock as his eyes drift down the page. “Is this… did we... “ Without lifting his head, he looks up at you, mouth in the shape of a silent, oh. “We… we’re married.” The corner of his mouth lifts into a smug smile. “You know what that means, right?” When he wiggles his eyebrows at you, it sends your anxiety into overdrive.

“Dammit, Dean, this is serious! Did you look at the signatures?” Jabbing a finger in the direction of the marriage certificate, you shriek, “We used our real names! That is a legal and binding document.” Jumping up, you pace in front of the couch, wildly gesturing with your hands. “Do you even remember getting married? Because I don’t! Not remembering my wedding day is not something I ever dreamed of happening. And what else did we do that we don’t remember?” You start to hyperventilate as you continue to pace. “I mean, we could have fucking killed someone or started another damn apocalypse and have no fucking clue!”

“Okay, whoa!” Dean gets up and takes a step over the coffee table to stand in front of you. Resting his hands on your shoulders, he looks you in the eye. “Hey, calm down, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

Your hands clench into fists, and you shake them out with a huff. “Yeah- yeah, okay.” His touch is both electrifying and calming; it would be so easy just to fall into his embrace and let the steady beat of his heart soothe your frayed nerves. You nod your head and turn out of his grasp, taking a couple of steps away before he can see the emotion you can only imagine is written all over your face.

“Y/N?”

“I’m alright.” Spinning back to face him, you plaster a smile on your face. “So, what do we do now?”

Dean’s gaze is intent before he startles you with a shout. “Wait! Where’s the money?” Racing into the bedroom, he comes back with his jeans in hand and unceremoniously tosses your bag to you. Pulling out his wallet, he sits back down to count the bills. “I have a little over two grand; what’ve you got?”

Opening the small bag, you pull out a wad of bills and lay them out on the table to count. “Just under a grand,” you reply after your third attempt at tallying up the money.

“Son of a bitch! Where’s the rest of it?” Dean hops up from the chair again to pace the floor. “I swear, if we were robbed—”

“Easy there, cowboy,” you laugh. “It’s not like in the movies. Casinos don’t just hand over large sums of money to the winners. We had to fill out paperwork, remember? We only took twenty… no, ten grand in cash. They’ll send us, well, the ‘Campbells’, cashier’s checks for the balance after they deduct taxes.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “Fine, but that still leaves us short about seven thousand.”

Pointing to the ring on your left hand, you huff, “Well, this probably cost around three grand, easy.”

“So what happened to the other four grand?” You watch as Dean stuffs the bills back into his wallet, partially pulling a slip of paper out before sliding it back into place. “The room.”

“Maybe…,” you huff. “I’m more concerned about this marriage certificate than I am the money.” Pulling the document closer, you point to the signatures. “I mean, how the hell did we get away with using our real names? It’s not like we have our real IDs.” You take a moment to think, then snap your fingers and exclaim, “Hey, maybe that’s where the rest of the money went. Maybe we bribed them.”

Tapping your finger on the paper, you continue to ponder. “I still don’t understand why we’d use our real names. Or why the hell we got married in the first place.”

“Is it really that horrible that we’re married?”

The tone in his voice makes your head snap in his direction. His face is unreadable as you try to determine what he meant. The silence grows heavy between you as you continue to stare at each other. He arches a brow, still waiting for your response, so you attempt to cut the tension with a joke.

“Look, I don’t know if I even find you attractive. Why the hell would I marry you?” Collecting the money lying on the table, you stuff it back into your bag, missing Dean’s anguished frown.

“You know, Sam is probably going nuts since he can’t reach either one of us.” You continue to avoid further eye contact with him and make your way toward the bathroom. “Why don’t you find the phone in here and call him while I take a quick shower? Once you’ve showered, we can meet up with him and see if he can help us put the rest of the events together. Maybe grab some food?” Without waiting for a response, you shut the bathroom door and slump to the floor.

What the hell was that? If you didn’t know better, you’d think that Dean is actually happy that the two of you are married.

The metal band is cool against your skin as you scrub your hand down your face. Stretching your arm out in front of you, you stare at the gemstones sparkling in the fluorescent light as you wiggle your finger. The ring fits perfectly like it was made specifically for you.

What a waste.

Out of all the people you had met and the few you had dated over the years, Dean was the one person you could actually see yourself marrying. He was the real deal, the whole package—brains, brawn, heart of gold, a hero—all neatly wrapped in that beautiful body with those gorgeous green eyes—the same color eyes as the stones in your ring.

Your ring… Is it really your ring? Where had it even come from?

The tears you’d been forcing down since first seeing the marriage certificate slide down your cheeks as you slide the ring off, wondering why you haven’t removed it before now. You immediately miss the weight of it around your finger.

With a sigh, you stand, slipping the ring into one of the robe’s pockets. You still need to figure out how you got to this point, and that isn’t going to happen sitting in here and wishing that the fantasy you’d often dreamed about hadn’t literally come true without you even being able to remember it. Maybe the hot shower will calm the storm of emotions raging through you and help release the memories still blocked in your mind.

The water pelting your body from all angles and the misty steam begin to ease the tension in your muscles, but your mind is still blank when it comes to what took place after the two of you left Gilley’s.

Geezus, the first time the brothers ask you to join them in Vegas, your presence causes everything to go down in flames.

You should have just said no. Then you wouldn’t have to face the feelings for Dean that you’d managed to keep in check all these years. Feelings that you had hoped might be reciprocated one day but knew in your heart never would be.

Dean is lying on the couch when you exit the bathroom, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. The shower had done very little to diffuse the overwhelming panic you were still feeling, and there he is, looking so at peace, like not being able to remember one of the single most important events of your life is no big deal.

It irritates the piss out of you, and you bark at him, “Bathroom’s all yours.”

Opening one eye, he arches his brow in question as he looks at you over the back of the couch. He opens his mouth but apparently thinks better about saying anything and instead swings his legs off the sofa to sit up, shoulders slumped and face buried in his hands.

The resigned sigh and troubled look on his face make your heart ache for no apparent reason when he finally stands. You reach out and gently grip his hand as he shuffles past you, making him pause.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper and give his fingers a quick squeeze before releasing his hand. “Did you get a hold of Sam?”

Dean purses his lips, giving you a small nod. “Yeah, he’ll be here in about forty-five. He’s bringing a change of clothes for us, too.”

“Did you remember anything else?”

“Uhm… No.” He grimaces as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You?” His eyes seem to be pleading with you to tell him yes.

You shake your head and whisper, “No.” Dean looks almost pained at your response before his poker face slides into place.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says as he shuts the door to the bathroom behind him.

You plop down on the bed and bury your head in your hands, tears once again dampening your cheeks. Did you imagine it, or did Dean hesitate before he said he didn’t remember anything?

What a fucking mess this all turned out to be.

You had been so excited about coming to Vegas and spending time with the brothers having fun, yet here you are in the middle of one of the worst dilemmas of your life—married to your best friend without any idea of how it happened. You know that this isn’t something that he’d ever wanted, that being tied to you in this way will only be more of a burden to him. He’d never given you any indication that he felt more than friendship toward you. You need to fix this; Dean deserves better.

The thought of dressing in the clothes you’d spent the night before in isn’t very appealing, but you don’t have a choice. If you waited for Sam to get there, you wouldn’t be able to do what you needed to do. You find a pad of paper and a pen in the nightstand drawer and write a quick note.

Dean,

I’m sorry for my part in this; it was obviously a mistake. I’ll find an attorney to annul the marriage as soon as possible and have them send you the paperwork.

Picking up the marriage certificate from the coffee table, you put the note, along with the ring, in its place. After one more look around the room to make sure you have everything, you slip out the door, determined to set things right… no matter how much it hurts you.