His phone contains the horrifying photographic proof: a selfie of the two of us doing shots at the upscale bar; dancing in a circle of half-naked clubgoers; purchasing a ring at what appears to be the City Target; me, posing with the ring while Andrew kisses my cheek. I’m so drunk, I don’t even look like myself. That isn’t even my face.

Also, this ring is clearly cubic zirconia.

“Oliver,” Andrew says, sounding worried for the first time all morning, “I posted all of these to Instagram. I have hundreds of comments. Thank God my parents are spreading my grandfather’s ashes in Bordeaux and my sister doesn’t have social media, but shit. I have thousands of followers!”

“Um, good for you?”

“I mean, thousands of people have seen these photos and liked them and commented on them.” Andrew joins me in pacing the carpet. “Okay, okay,” he says, mussing his hair with one hand. “Hot take: maybe this is actually a great thing.”

“It’s not.”

“No, listen.” He does a quick search on his phone. “To get a marriage license in Multnomah County, you just have to apply at the courthouse and wait three days before getting married. We can go this Thursday on my lunch break and then get married the week after Christmas.”

My head is spinning, and I drop it into my hands.

“Seriously, we could do what the napkin says. We could pretend to be happily married for a while, separate after a few months, and have the divorce paperwork fully signed by next Christmas.”

“I can’t be married to you for the next twelve months, Andrew.”

“Why not?” He looks me up and down. “It doesn’t seem like you have much going on.”

I snatch up the rest of my clothes and begin frantically shoving my arms into my cardigan sleeves. “I have some stuff going on. And we’re strangers! How the hell would we fake being engaged? I don’t know the first thing about you!”

“We’d get to know each other!” he insists as I grab my shoes and trip my way into the hall. He follows. “And you’d come to Christmas at my parents’ cabin, and I don’t know…. I haven’t thought it all the way through, and I’m a bit hungover.”

“What about your parents? They’ll be fine with your getting married just to claim your inheritance?”

“My parents don’t know about the addendum to my grandfather’s will! He only added it a few weeks ago, and the executor gave me the heads-up because we went to Stanford together. That’s why this is such a brilliant plan!”

I scoff.

“Think about it, Oliver. No one would know the truth but us. We would tell everyone we’re in love, and then—”