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But I was warm from the buzz.
And his arms were around me.
And I felt safe.
Happy.
Like nothing could ever bring me down.
The next set of pictures is us cuddling up on the gondolas at the Venetian. When I close my eyes, I can almost hear the gondola operator belting out an Italian love song.
And I can feel that affection I had for Joel.
I trusted him.
I really liked him.
Enough to marry him.
The next picture is us in front of Tiffany's. We're both smiling. I look tipsy but not out of my head.
And Joel's smile…
God, he has a nice smile. Real. Honest.
I'm swiping to the next photo when my screen flashes with a text from my sister.
Anne: Holy fuck, Bella. How could you get married without telling me! And to THE JOEL YOUNG!!!
My sister knows my groom's last name and I don't.
Wait. Why does Anne know Joel's last name?
My phone flashes with another text.
Anne: You know how much I love Dangerous Noise. I get it. Eloping is fun and romantic. But I wish I could have at least thrown you a bachelorette party. Tell me you have pictures!
Dangerous Noise. That's a band. And it's a familiar band.
But my head is still fuzzy. I can't remember.
I have to Google "Dangerous Noise."
Oh. That band.
They're Anne's favorite. She plays their albums all the time.
And now I'm married to their drummer.
I'm married to a rock star.
The evidence is clear. There are thousands of pictures of Joel Young, the Dangerous Noise drummer. There are hundreds of articles. There's a fucking poster on Amazon.
And it's incredibly yummy too—Joel lying back in bed, his jeans unbuttoned, his hand sliding down his torso, his expression come here and help me with this, baby.
I'm still trying to figure out what the hell I should text Anne when there's a knock on the door. That must be him.
I'm out of options.
