“Calm down, Oliver.” He climbs out of bed, and I see he’s in a pair of snug red briefs that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Otherwise, it’s all muscular thighs and broad shoulders and the kind of V-shaped muscle configuration I didn’t know truly existed in the wild. And damn—he is really attractive.

“We did not have sex,” he says reasonably. “As tempting as you are in those old-lady underpants”—I fumble to cover myself with my jeans—“you were blackout drunk, and I absolutely did not try to have sex with you. I may not remember much, but I know that for a fact. And to be honest, I think I was too drunk to—you know.” He points demonstratively to his crotch bulge. “Perform. There is no way we had sex.”

I consider this amidst the rollicking nausea and the migraine blooming behind my eyes. “Why would I have come back to your apartment, then? Why am I wearing a ring?”

Andrew pinches the bridge of his nose. “I… I don’t know.” He grabs his pants off the floor to fish his phone out of the pocket and a folded napkin comes along with it. “Ah. Well. This might clarify some things.”

He hands me the napkin. On one side is my drawing of Jack. On the other, scrawled across the top are the words ANDREW AND ELLIE’S CONTRACT OF MARRIAGE in my handwriting. “Fuck.”

Below that are four enumerated agreements:

1. Elena Jane Oliver agrees to marry Andrew Richard Kim-Prescott as soon as a marriage license can be obtained;
2. Until the license can be obtained, Elena Jane Oliver will perform the role of Andrew Richard Kim-Prescott’s fiancée, including, but not limited to, attending Christmas at his parents’ cabin;
3. Upon marrying, Andrew Richard Kim-Prescott agrees to give Elena Jane Oliver 10 percent of his subsequent inheritance;
4. Elena Jane Oliver and Andrew Richard Kim-Prescott will remain married for twelve (12) months before dissolving their union, at which time Andrew Richard Kim-Prescott will cover the expense of the divorce.

Below that, there are little xes next to lines on which we signed our full names. Because apparently our drunken selves were formal as hell. I’m about 90 percent sure a drunk napkin contract is not a legally binding document, but that remaining 10 percent is wreaking havoc on my anxiety. My stomach heaves, and I think I might be sick right here in Andrew’s monochromatic bedroom.

“This is not good.”

“This is worse.” Andrew is staring down at his phone. “I think I’ve managed to reconstruct a partial timeline of our evening.”