I overslept. I fucking overslept. What was wrong with me? The wedding was starting sometime around noon, and I had woken up at ten in the morning. Goddamn hotel and the conveniently placed bar in the lobby. Goddamn cheap spirits (I'm a sucker for a good deal). Goddamn hangovers.
I stumbled through my hotel room, trying to find my suitcase and tripping over something medium-sized and box-shaped. Found it. I unzipped it quickly, my hands shaking and my vision still slightly blurry because of my spontaneous binge on alcohol last night. Why did I have to do that?
Well. Nothing there to be done about it now, except take a couple of aspirin pills and get ready as quickly as possible.
Shit. Why didn't I set an alarm? I pulled on a fresh pair of boxers and my dress pants before I realized that I hadn't taken a shower and I kinda stank of vomit. Cursing under my breath, I yanked the pants and boxers off and practically sprinted into the bathroom, grabbing one of the tiny little hotel shampoo bottles and a bar of soap.
The water was cold, too cold, but I couldn't do anything about it. The shower was uncomfortable, to say the least, but I was clean at the end of it, and that was all that really mattered. It took me about twenty more minutes to figure out how to button up the suit properly, as I was still kind of intoxicated and another twenty minutes to figure out how to tie the tie, because I hadn't done that crap in a while. I came downstairs just as the breakfast area was closing and swiped a couple of cinnamon rolls, ignoring the dirty looks the kitchen staff gave me.
I was in the car by around 11:00, which was not good timing, especially considering I had no clue where the hell this Saddlerock Ranch place was and my GPS fucking sucked. The thing led me to a gentleman's club at first, and I was utterly repulsed, trying to figure out how on earth Saddlerock Ranch could be the name of a goddamn strip joint. It reminded me of the place where we filmed the "But It's Better if You Do" video, but we didn't even film that in a real strip club. At least, I don't think. It's been a while.
An hour later, I finally came to the place—it was somewhere in the middle of a bunch of trees and dusty paths and gravel roads, the sun high in the sky and glaring down on us like it was some sort of God. Ha. I think, imagining a conversation with it. We were higher than you when we wrote Pretty. Odd.
Fuck you, it replies, and I begin to wonder if I'm still high. Probably not. I don't think I've gotten high again since 2009. I don't think I've had a conversation with a blazing ball of gas and fire since 2009, either. It's been a while.
Rubbing my eyes, I got out of the car, eyeing the throng of chattering people and white decorations just a couple hundred feet away from where I was standing. For a moment, I think I see Brendon, but then the person turns around. A stranger.
I began to walk tentatively over to the crowd, staring at my nice shoes and suddenly regretting showing up. It's not too late to turn back, a voice inside my head informs me. All you have to do is turn around and reach for your car door and leave.
It was pretty tempting, I'll admit, the prospect of just leaving. And I was about to do exactly that when I heard my name being called out. I froze. Who the hell even knows me in this place, other than Brendon and Spencer? I looked up slowly, a sheepish smile spreading over my face when I saw Pete Wentz's familiar face, a glass of champagne in one hand and Patrick Stump's fedora in the other.
"What the hell, Pete, give it," Patrick protested, one of his hands also curved around a champagne glass and the other one darting back and forth, reaching for his hat. Pete snorted, squishing the hat onto Patrick's head.
