“Not happening.”
“Excuse me?” She slams our joined hands into my hip. “You’re the one who invited yourself intomyimaginary scenario. You’ll get married wherever I say.”
I laugh, thinking of Bridezilla Vee, barking orders at caterers and florists and bringing me nineteen different flavors of cake to try, before she finds the One. My sister used to love those shows about crazy, screaming brides, and the thought of her stops my laughter in its tracks. “Nontraditional in a field. Got it. Do I at least get to pick out our song or something?”
“As long as it doesn’t suck. I’m not dancing to anything cheesy and overplayed, like Frank Sinatra or Louis Armstrong.”
“I’d write you an original song. Obviously.” I say it as though I’ve had this plan for months. Years maybe. As if I’ve ever thought about any of this before this very strange, exact moment. “And a symphony would play with me. It would be like rock meets classical. Very nontraditional, very rock royalty.” I lay my cheek against the blanket we’re lying on, so I can look at her. “Wearerock royalty in this scenario, right?”
She nods and rolls her eyes. “I don’t think my parents are splurging for a symphony.”
“Hey, I’m a big-shot, formerly coked-out rock star. I’m sure I saved for my wedding.”
She giggles. “What formerly coked-out rock star wouldn’t?”
“Exactly. Anyway, your parents won’t like me much when they find out about my little problem.” I tap my nose dramatically.
“Formerproblem,” she corrects in a very serious voice. A chunk of hair falls onto my forehead and Vee pushes it away with a warm hand.
I’m never getting another haircut.“Right. I’m sure they’ll hate our rock-meets-symphony field-wedding so much they won’t pay for it, anyway.”
“I want Rice Krispies treats!” Vee shouts.
“Right now?”
“No, for our wedding. I want a cake made out of Rice Krispies treats.”
I love the way she’s playing along so easily, and I love that with Vee I can actually joke about an imaginary wedding—myimaginary wedding—without feeling like I may lose my dinner on this beach. If my ex had brought up our wedding—hell, if she’d brought upgoingto a wedding—I probably would have broken out in hives. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be playing along. But there’s something about Vee that’s different. And it’s not that marrying her is so unimaginable that I can just joke about it. Vee is just… easy. Easy to be with, and easy to talk to, and completely, one hundred percent genuine, in a way that I know I don’t deserve. I can’t give her the same thing. It’s reason number 192 I should stick with my plan of keeping this platonic.
“I’m not eating Rice Krispies treats at my wedding,” I say. “They’re like slimy rubber chunks.”
“But they’re my favorite,” she whines.
“Not happening, sweetheart. I draw the line at marshmallow anything at our wedding.”
“You’re totally unreasonable.”
“Do we get to have a bar? Or am I a recovering drunk, too? Do we have to have a hot chocolate bar or something lame like that?”
“God, hot chocolate sounds good,” she says.
“For our wedding?”
“No, for now. It’s cold tonight.” She leans over, resting her head on my shoulder, and wiggling closer so her chest is pressed up against my side. For the hundredth time since I met her, I have to talk myself out of kissing her. I don’t deserve it. Or her. And this isn’t even what I came here for.
“You want to leave?” I ask, slipping my hand out of hers and looping it under her neck, pulling her tighter to me. “We can stop at the gas station and get your hot chocolate.”
She nods against my arm but she doesn’t move. We lie in the darkness for hours, listening to the music drift down from the dunes, as her heart beats in rhythm against my shoulder. This isn’t what I came here for, but it’s what makes me stay. It’s what helps me forget.
VIRGINIA
Step Three: Exit Your Comfort Zone
I’m sitting in Cam’s car, in the leather pants he bought me and a vintage concert tee I found at a thrift shop. I cut open the neck and stitched it into a wide scoop, so it hangs over one shoulder. My guitar is in the backseat with Cam’s, and we’re pulling onto the dimly lit streets of a small beach town thirty minutes north of Riverton. We drive down the brick streets, past the gift shops and restaurants, until the road dumps us out onto a small beach.
“Dakota Gray and Parker Sunset are going out tonight.” My whole body had tensed when Cam said it this afternoon. I knew “going out” was code for singing. At first glance this beach is empty, but as we leave the car—pulling our guitars out behind us—I can hear the familiar sound of bongos.Do they give you a bongo the first time you buy weed? Or if you show up at a beach after sunset enough nights in a row? Is it part of a starter kit or something?
“God bless the stoners,” Cam says. “I came here once this summer thinking maybe the waves would be better.”
