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near the entrance, I ignore the perky hostess asking me repeatedly if I need a table for one. My headache is returning and hopefully someday my feet will start to move and she’ll go away.
    Ansel looks up and sees me, and his smile vanishes for a beat before it is replaced by something much sweeter than a smile. It’s happy relief. He shows everything, so easily laid bare on his sleeve.
    Finn and Oliver turn to look over their shoulders and see me. Finn says something I can’t hear before rapping the table twice with his knuckles and pushing away in his chair.
    Ansel stays at the table as his two friends walk toward me.
    “Wh-where,” I start, then pause, straighten my shoulders, and say, “Where are Harlow and Lola?”
    Oliver lifts his chin toward the elevators down the hall. “Slaypee. Me bee shaah.”
    I squint at the Aussie. “Huh?”
    “‘Sleeping,’” Finn translates with a laugh. “‘Maybe shower.’ The accent isn’t quite as thick when he’s not hung-over. I’ll tell them you’re down here.”
    I raise my eyebrows expectantly, wondering if there is any other information they want to share.
    “And?” I ask, looking back and forth between them.
    Finn’s eyebrows draw together. “And . . . ?”
    “Did we all get married?” I ask, meaning I expect he’ll tell me, Nope, it’s just a game. We won these expensive gold rings playing blackjack!
    But he nods, looking far less disturbed by this turn of events than I am. “Yep. But don’t worry, we’ll fix it.” He looks back at the table and gives Ansel a meaningful stare.
    “Fix it?” I repeat, and oh my God, is this what a stroke feels like?
    Turning back to me, Finn lifts a hand, rests it on my shoulder, and looks at me with dramatic condolences. When I look behind him to Ansel, I can see his . . . my husband’s? . . . eyes are lit with amusement.
    “Do you know what a Brony is?”
    I blink back to Finn, not entirely sure I’ve heard him correctly. “A— what ?”
    “A Brony,” he repeats. “It’s a guy who is into My Little Pony .”
    “Yeah, okay.” What the . . . ?
    He leans in, bending his knees so he’s at face level with me. “I ask you this not because the man you married last night in a drunken haze is a Brony, but because he thinks the whole idea of Bronies is fantastic.”
    “I’m not sure I’m following,” I whisper. Am I still drunk? Is he? What the hell kind of world have I walked into this morning?
    “He also once took an actual bath in Jell-O because someone dared him to and he was curious,” Finn tells me. “He loves to open wine bottles with only a shoe and a wall. And when we ran out of cash in Albuquerque and the restaurant wouldn’t accept credit cards, he paid for our dinner by dancing next door at this run-down little strip club.”
    “I need coffee before I can understand a single thing you’re telling me,” I say.
    Finn ignores this. “He made about seven hundred dollars that night, but that’s not my point.”
    “Okay?” I glance back at Ansel again. There’s no way he can hear what we’re saying, but he clearly knows these guys well enough that he doesn’t need to. He’s outright laughing.
    “My point is to keep all that in mind when you speak to him. My point is Ansel falls a little bit in love with everything he sees.” When he says this, my chest tightens inexplicably. “It’s what I love about the guy, but his whole life is basically . . .” He looks up at Oliver for guidance.
    Oliver pulls a toothpick from his mouth. “Sayren deepty?” he says before sliding the toothpick back in.
    “Serendipity.” Finn pats my shoulder as if we’ve wrapped things up here—as if this conversation made any kind of goddamn sense—and steps around me. Oliver nods once, solemnly. Neon lights flash in the reflection of his glasses and I have to blink away, wondering if throwing up again might be preferable to the conversation I’m sure is about to transpire. What are they even talking