I Got Married in Las Vegas. The Problem Is… I Wasn’t Supposed to Be the Groom.

I am not an impulsive person. I once spent 45 minutes choosing a deodorant because “cedarwood communicates maturity” but “lime suggests I still have potential.” And yet, here we are. This is the story of how I got married in Las Vegas wearing a rented white jacket that smelled like 200 previous weddings and mild regret.

It all started with a bachelor party. Not mine. Andrea’s. Andrea is the kind of guy who says, “Guys, let’s keep it classy.” Andrea also lost $600 at blackjack because he claimed he could “read the table’s energy.” At 2:48 a.m., we were standing in front of a wedding chapel with a pink limousine parked sideways and a sweaty Elvis smoking while scrolling on his phone. The sign outside said: “Wedding! Renewal! Quick Divorce!” That should have been a warning.

We went inside laughing. Someone shouted, “Let’s fake-marry Andrea!” And then Andrea disappeared. Completely. Vanished between a drunk Batman and a woman dressed as the Statue of Liberty. In the confusion, a blonde girl in cowboy boots grabbed my arm. “Is it you?” she asked. “Depends. For what?” “For the wedding.” I laughed. She didn’t. She handed me a bouquet.

Suddenly there was a cameraman. Elvis appeared. Music started. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here—” “Wait, there’s a mistake,” I tried to say. Elvis looked at me. “Baby, in Vegas there are no mistakes. Only upgrades.” The girl whispered, “My ex is outside. If I get married, he can’t come in.” Before I could process that, we heard yelling from outside. “I SEE YOU, KAREN!”

My brain decided the only logical move was… to continue. I nodded. Nodding was my fatal error. Elvis sped up. “Do you promise to love her through buffets and slot machines?” “Yes?” “Do you promise to share Wi-Fi?” “…Yes?” “Perfect. Married.”

Applause track. The door burst open. A massive man in a Hawaiian shirt stormed in, furious. “THAT’S MY WEDDING!” Silence. I turned to her. “Your ex?” “More or less.” “More or less WHAT?!” Turns out: she was supposed to marry him. They fought an hour earlier. She decided to marry “the first European with innocent eyes.” That was me. The European with innocent eyes.

The ex pointed at me. “You don’t even know her middle name!” I looked at her. “What’s your middle name?” “I don’t know. I just use the initial.” Perfect.

Chaos exploded. The ex tried to throw a centerpiece at me. Elvis attempted mediation by quoting universal love. The cameraman kept filming because “this is gold.” And then came the twist. The chapel clerk checked the documents. Silence. She looked at us. “There’s been a mistake.” Finally. “The marriage is valid… but he’s not the groom.” She pointed at me. “He’s the witness.”

I slowly turned around. Behind me stood Andrea. In a tux. With the expression of a deer in headlights. “Guys…” he said. “I think I signed something.” We learned that Andrea, drunk, had agreed to a “symbolic ceremony,” signed real documents without reading, Karen thought it was revenge theater, and the ex had paid half the deposit. Result? Andrea was legally married. To Karen. I was the official witness to a revenge wedding.

The ex sat down and started crying. Elvis sang louder. “Baby, this is the magic of Vegas.” The next morning Andrea checked the certificate. It was real. Full panic mode. We spent 48 hours trying to start an annulment. The clerk chewed gum and said, “Third case today.” Karen was surprisingly calm. “Maybe it’s destiny.” Andrea fainted.

Eventually the annulment process began. I flew home with a photo where I looked like the groom, a video of Elvis screaming “LOVE WINS,” and twelve Instagram tags. My mother called me. “Why are you dressed like a groom in America?” I answered, “It’s a long story.”

Moral of the story? Never nod in Las Vegas. Because in Vegas, love is fast, Elvis is sweaty, paperwork is real, and you might accidentally attend a wedding that legally ruins your best friend’s life. And somehow, you’ll still be the one explaining it to your mother.