The room Divya leads us into leaves nothing out. Lavish textured wallpaper lines the room and a big screen television takes up almost a whole wall, lighting up with lyrics as the song selections play over invisible surround speakers. The large dark wood coffee table in the center of the leather couches is covered in appetizers of all kinds and a bottle of champagne.

"I had no idea karaoke bars came this fancy," Enrique comments. "All the ones I've been to were a much more communally drunk experience that you'd like to forget. And much more public." His eyes drift over to the door separating us from the rest of the bar.

"I like it," I say once I manage to swallow the triangular fried thing I stuffed into my mouth. "You did good, Divya. Now, what are we singing first?"

I lead the way into the room and wait for everyone to sit down before trying to sandwich myself between Divya and Lorena. They shoot together faster than I can blink and Lorena looks over at Enrique, gesturing with her head. I can take a hint.

"You know we're hitting the Backstreet Boys." Divya answers, organizing the microphones onto the edge of the table.

I really should have known that. "It's 'I Want it That Way', isn't it?"

"Of course it is. Now here, take the microphone and sing, my pretties."

There's three microphones and five of us, so I could have gotten away without taking one if it weren't for the fact that Divya picked up a second one off the table and put it straight into my hands.

I guess I'll sing, then. I smile at Enrique and try to keep my confidence up as I sit down beside him, turning to face the television.

The second the words begin flashing across the neon screen, Divya and Lorena both stop singing into the microphones so there is no way for me to hide my voice.

I don't know what they expect from me, but if it is some kind of profession of undying love to my husband, they are sorely mistaken. He is maybe, at best, a friend, and even that feels tenuous.

But no one is going to get in the way of a good Backstreet Boys song, so I hold the microphone like I'm Celine Dion and throw my shoes off to stand on the couch, directing all of my singing energy to Divya.

Once I get to the part of the song where the other boys are singing backup, Enrique shoots up beside me and sings the backup vocals before sitting back down like nothing happened, slowly picking away at a pig in a blanket he's been nursing since we got here.

The marathon of turn of the millennium music continues with some more neon coloured screens and singing as we laugh and consume our weight in food. Enrique doesn't eat as much as I'd expect him to, but maybe I just misjudged him.

When we finally pause, we put the track for a Whitney balad on in the background. It's a beautiful song, but ain't a single person in this room who has the pipes to pull it off, so it's excellent relaxing music.

"So, Enrique. Tell us about yourself." Divya sounds like she's interviewing a candidate to be her assistant, not casually talking with a new friend.

"Div—" I start to defend him. If he gets raked across the coals, he is definitely going to rethink this whole arrangement. The food might be exquisite, but there is only so much one man can take.

"What do you want to know?" Enrique relaxes back into the corner of the couch and wipes his fingers off on a napkin. "Bianca seems lovely and I'm sure you have questions. I'll answer what I can, but unfortunately Bianca and I seem to share the problem of not remembering what happened the night we got married."

"Drat!" Carla exclaimed with her mouth full. "I really want to know."

"You don't think Bianca would have told us if she'd figured it out?"

"I was hoping she'd just forgotten to ask him. Piecing it together from her pictures just doesn't feel like I was there."

We all stare at her. Because, of course, she wasn't there.

"Fine." She sighs and stuffs another chip into her mouth.

"We know you're a teacher," Lorena offers. "I think Bianca mentioned you teach math. How long have you been doing that?"

A lob. An easy ball. What's her play?

Enrique doesn't miss a beat. Taking the time to explain his education and work history, including a small stint in a northern community which I'd never heard about before.

"Wait, you worked up north?" I ask when he finishes, not letting anyone else get a word in.

"I did, yeah. I don't think I was the best teacher for the job, really, and I learned more from them than they did from me, I'm sure. But they asked me to come, so I did."

"It's so remote," Divya notes. "Is it difficult living so far from your family and friends?"

"I already live pretty far from my family and friends." Enrique's smile is strained. "But sometimes the best adventures come from doing what we must."

That's cryptic.

I don't even notice myself frozen mid bite until Divya nudges my arm a little.

"You been married before?" Lorena butts in as I hastily chew the rest of my snack.

"Nope," Enrique answers, folding his hands across his knee. "I've never been married before. Well, never before Bianca."

"Right, so just the once." I don't know why I'm babbling, but it won't stop.

The Whitney has stopped playing in the background and the conversation grinds to a halt, the only ambiance coming from the main area of the bar where a woman is singing a very sad country tune in a key that probably only registers to dogs and very young babies.

Divya continues the assault. "Do you have any siblings?"

"Is there a mustache in Mexico?"

"How many?"

"Six."

"Older or younger?"

"Both."

"You close with them?"

"Some of them more than others. I've also got a niece and, before you ask, two sisters in law and a brother in law."

"I wasn't going to ask. Have you been to a wedding before?"

"I have six siblings."

She just stares at him and I notice Lorena and Carla have somehow left the room without me noticing. Smart of them, honestly. If only I weren't sandwiched between Divya and Enrique.

"Are you going to treat Bianca like she deserves to be treated? Because if you come to my wedding and you treat her like garbage or in any way disrespect her, I will have you ceremoniously ejected while my videographer follows you around."

"I would never dream of disrespecting her." His eyes flicker to me and then return to Divya. "Or your wedding."

"Why do you want her to go back with you after my wedding?"

I choke on my hummus.

"She told you about that, huh?"

Divya is about to go full fire mode on him, but he answers before her head actually combusts.

"I want her to come back with me because we are married."

If looks could kill, Divya's glare would have killed us both.

"Not like that." He laughs despite Divya sharpening her nails in front of him. "What I mean is, we're on vacation right now. Nothing is normal. I want us to see what normal looks like before she decides not to be married to me. That's all."

"And if she decides she doesn't want to be married to you?"

"Then that is her choice to make," he says sadly. "And I will let her make it. Guilt free. She was just as out of it as I was and I don't want her tied to me out of some needless obligation. But I believe marriage is forever. And while I never imagined myself getting married in a Vegas chapel, I believe I owe it to myself to give it a shot. To really say that I tried, you know? And to me, that means giving us a chance to see what life would look like together."

"And what if you're a psychopathic serial killer or something?" Divya demands, crossing her arms. "What then?"

"I'm not." He shrugs. "Not sure how I can prove that to you besides making the rest of these days count."

"I'll be watching you," she says.

"I'd have it no other way."

They engage in some type of staring contest ritual to which I'm not privy and then Divya nods. "Good. Let's sing."

And then, this man picks up a microphone, shakes out his hair, and selects a song by the one and only Elvis Presley. "Let's sing!" His attempt at the voice is enough to send anyone running for the hills, but Divya accepts his offer and picks up another microphone.

The two of them are in the middle of some hilarious impersonations when Carla and Lorena sneak back in the door, the latter hesitantly offering me a thumbs up which I exuberantly return.

This is a weird way to make friends, but if it works it works.