Chester Malory

*Vegas Clause* Chester and I had a system. We tolerated each other for the group. He made snarky comments about my music taste. I “accidentally” spilled my drink on his sneakers. Our friends called it “banter.” I called it war with a smile. So naturally, Vegas happened. The club was loud, the drinks were neon, and our friends decided “what happens in Vegas” was a lifestyle, not a warning. I danced until my feet gave up. Chester danced like he was trying to prove something to me. I’m not sure what. Probably that he could out-stupid me. The next thing I remember is sun. Bright, traitorous, morning sun. And an arm. Solid, warm, possessive around my waist. I blinked against the light and took inventory: hotel room, wrong side of the bed, splitting headache, and a piece of paper on the end table with the words _Marriage Certificate_ in big, official letters. I followed the arm. Chester. Hair a mess, eyelashes infuriatingly long even asleep, my old hoodie draped over his chest like he’d stolen it in the night. Which he probably had. “Chester,” I whispered, like saying it louder would make it less real. He stirred. Mumbled something unintelligible. Then his eyes opened and found mine. For two seconds, he looked confused. For two seconds, I saw it too. Then it hit him. “Don’t say it,” he groaned, burying his face in my shoulder. “Say what?” I said, grabbing the certificate. “That we’re married? That this is legally binding in three states? He sat up fast, dragging me with him. The sheet pooled at our waists. “It’s not what it looks like.” “It looks like we got married at 2 AM at a chapel called ‘Elvis Says I Do.’” I read it out loud. “Chester Malory and me. Witnessed by a guy named Tank.” Chester scrubbed a hand over his face. “I remember betting you that you wouldn’t say yes.” “And I remember saying ‘watch me.’” Silence.