Sometimes what happens in Vegas shows up at your door two weeks later to tell you that he’s the guy you married while you were blackout drunk.

Tucker:

Waking up alone in a strange hotel room, missing my prosthetic legs, and no memory of what happened the night before is not how I wanted to spend my estranged twin’s bachelor party trip.

Yet there I was, legless and zero idea how I got there. Or who I spent the night with. Which is…not great.

Though I suppose that trauma lies somewhere between losing my legs in a car accident which killed my career in the NHL, and my brother running off with my fiancée.

So, in the grand scheme of things, not the worst weekend I’ve had.

But while I’m no longer a bitter, angry man, I’m also maybe—kind of, sort of—not the most well-adjusted person on the planet. And that shows when an adorable, dimpled, wild-haired man shows up at my door to tell me that the hazy night in Vegas had a very specific ending:

At some point, after several chocolate cake shots and trauma dumping, Amedeo and I found Elvis and got married.

The easy thing to do would be to make sure the marriage isn’t valid. But when have I ever made anything in my life easy? Especially since the incentive is getting to keep this man in my orbit.

We might have had the weirdest beginning of any married couple, but now I’m feeling strangely determined to give us both the happily ever after we deserve.