“We’re getting married today,” you say across the kitchen as you cook breakfast. I choke on the water I’m drinking and look at you, a mix of amusement and confusion on my face.

You and I have been dating for the past 5 1/2 months. Our relationship began in the absolute worst possible way. You were dating Liam, my ex-bandmate, but your relationship was fucked. Neither of you were happy, and somewhere along the way, you and I started hooking up. While you were dating one of my best friends.

It’s shitty, I know.

When Liam found out, you guys broke up, and eventually, the band ended, too. You insist that I wasn’t a homewrecker and that you two didn’t have a deep connection, but still.

After the band ended, I tried distancing myself from you, but that lasted about a week. I was in love with you. We started dating and moved to Malibu together, and we bought a secluded house in the hills.

We’ve been living in our own little utopia ever since then.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, still coughing from the water I choked on. What I don’t know was that your mom called you a couple days ago, wanting you to come back home to England. However, you don’t want to, and decided that if we get married, you don’t have to go back home.