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“Pfft. What sane woman would want another guy over you?”
I chuckle. “You’re an amazing hype-man, dude. What’s your name?”
“Tim.”
“You rock, Tim.”
He laughs. “I’m just speaking the truth. If a woman doesn’t want you, then what hope is there for the rest of us?”
“Ever heard of Fugitive Summer?”
Tim nods. “They’ve got that song right now. ‘Hate Sex High.’”
I’m not surprised he knows the song. That raunchy, addicting tune about a woman riding a “hate sex high” to three orgasms is so wildly popular right now, this driver could turn on his car radio and find it playing on a random station in five seconds flat.
“The woman who turned me down is with the guy who sings that song,” I reveal. “He wrote it about her. ‘La la la la Laila.’”
The driver gasps. “Wait. He’s singing Laila there? Ha! I thought he was singing ‘la la la’ the whole time!” He gasps again. “It was Laila Fitzgerald who turned you down?”
I’m not surprised he’s connected the dots so quickly, given his earlier comment about watching Sing Your Heart Out. Thanks to that show, Laila Fitzgerald has become a household name—and as a result, her romance with Savage from Fugitive Summer, a guy with endless swagger and a huge social media following, is big pop-culture news these days.
“Hmm,” the driver says. “I can’t say I blame Laila for choosing that guy over of you. No offense, but have you seen him? He looks like a god.”
“I don’t blame her, either.”
“Plus, he wrote a song about her. Who could compete with that?”
“Not a drummer, that’s for sure. Wait a minute. You’re saying I don’t look like a god?”
“Oh. I . . .”
I laugh. “Just fucking with you, Tim. I’m well aware I can’t compete with Savage. Nobody could.”
“The good news is, with that guy off the market, the world is your oyster.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a god,” I tease.
“You’re a demi-god, though.”
We both laugh.
“You really are the best hype-man, ever, Timothy. May I call you that?”
“Please do.” His eyes crinkle in the rearview mirror with his smile. “Chin up, Colin. Your dream girl is out there, waiting for you to find her. She might even be at the wedding tomorrow. A bridesmaid, maybe? Bridesmaids are notoriously horny at weddings.”
“They are?”
“Of course! They’re all dressed up, drinking champagne. They’ve just watched their bestie exchanging romantic vows of forever. Weddings are the best aphrodisiacs in the world!”
“Well, that might be the case, generally speaking. But this wedding is gonna be more like a family reunion for me than an episode of Love Island. I grew up next door to the groom, remember? Both our families will be there.”
“But did you grow up with the bridesmaids?”
“No, I haven’t even met the bride yet.”
“Well, there you go. Bring on the bridesmaids! Boom.”
I scowl at him playfully. “Why are you so determined to get me laid at this wedding?”
“Because those who can are obligated to do for those who can’t.”
Again, I laugh. This guy is a gem.
Tim talks for a while about his good feeling about me finding love, any day now, until, finally, we’re pulling into my destination: the parking lot of the church where my buddy, Logan, will marry his dream girl tomorrow evening.
“I hope I made it in time to catch at least the end of the rehearsal,” I murmur.
“Parking lot’s packed,” the driver observes. “That’s a good sign.”
He pulls the car in front of the church, as I’m giving him a monster tip on my phone. When the car stops, I bolt from my seat and stride to the trunk for my garment bag. But before I’ve completed my task, Tim appears and sheepishly asks for a selfie.
“I know you’re running late . . .” he says. “But I’d love a photo to show my wife.”
“You got it, Hype-man. Of course.”
Our selfie snapped, and thanks and handshakes administered, I wish the driver well, grab my bag, and sprint toward the church, excited to spend the weekend with people who know me simply as Colin Beretta—or perhaps, “Logan’s longtime friend, Colin”—rather than “Colin from 22 Goats.”
Two
Amy
The wedding officiant—my family’s longtime pastor—smiles at my big brother, Logan, and his beautiful bride-to-be, Kennedy, both of whom are standing before him in casual clothes and paper crowns supplied by the bride’s niece. “And that’s when you’ll turn around and lead the recessional down the center aisle,” the pastor explains. “Hand in hand, as husband and wife.”
Everyone in the church cheers, even though we know the man is only saying those exciting words for pretend tonight.
“Can we practice the recessional?” the wedding coordinator pipes in, her business-like tone in sharp contrast to the pastor’s festive one. She begins rattling off detailed instructions to the wedding party—the groomsmen and bridesmaids, including me, all of whom are currently standing in opposing lines. “Amy,” she says, shifting her dark gaze to me, “I’ll play the part of your assigned groomsman now, so you’ll have someone to practice walking with.”
