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“Great idea!” Shelby’s voice fades away as she’s relaying what I’d said about the cards. I was diagnosed as celiac roughly six months ago, so I’m still getting used to advocating for myself and my strict diet. It’s a tricky balance of not wanting to come across as a whiny pain in the ass but knowing if I don’t speak up, I will literally have a whole lot of pain in my ass if I consume so much as a crumb of gluten or casein. And then I’ll fall asleep faster than a dad on Thanksgiving. And I’llwake up with every single vertebra and foot and hand bone on fire. And then I’ll be useless for an entire week with constant migraines.
This wedding is my first big test. I was tempted to pack gluten-free granola bars rather than make a fuss about the catering, but Shelby wouldn’t hear of it. (I’m still packing the granola bars, FYI, and my enzyme pills, because I’m not about to interrupt my best friend on the most important day of her life to ask for my chicken to be sent back and baked in olive oil instead of butter.)
I sip the last bit of my watered-down gin, the ice having melted, and pull out my phone. I’d silenced it, but it appears Huck’s been texting me a running commentary from the night. His sound engineer, Arlo, was holding a gender-reveal party at an ax-throwing place outside Nashville. A smile blooms across my face as I scroll.
HUCK: These guys are too manly for me. This place is bleeding masculinity and not just because nearly everyone is a lumberjack homosexual. They all have beards. And giant forearms. Did you know there was a wrong way to throw an ax?
I snicker. Arlo is a pretty small dude, but his husband, Josh, is a burly pediatrician who comes from a large family of strapping men. They’re having their first child via surrogate this fall and just had the ultrasound done this week. I’m dying to know what they’re having.
HUCK: Scratch that—the wrong way is throwing a sharp object in the first place.
HUCK: Update: they bought cigars. Know what’s more ridiculous than a scrawny white dude whose preferred drink of choice is “your driest Cab”? A thirty-six-year-old trying to smoke a cigar for the first time. This is like when I was twelve and my friend Joe rolled literal swamp grass in a poison ivy leaf and tried to convince me it was pot.
HUCK: Seriously though, these guys are so nice. Arlo married up. I knew that, of course, but…
HUCK: Your song was just on the radio.
HUCK: And now my song is on the radio.
HUCK: They’re song besties.
HUCK: I might be drunk. No one wants to share my wine. Not even Arlo. I need you.
HUCK: I mean.
HUCK: To help drink the wine.
HUCK: I don’t NEED you. You should be having fun with your ladies.
HUCK: Ladies is a dumb word. Women? Girls?
HUCK: They just started a competition to see who can chop through a log in a single swing. Help!
HUCK: Spoiler: I didn’t win.
I bite my lip to keep from giggling out loud. Man, he’s fucking cute.
LORELAI: When is the reveal happening???
HUCK:…
HUCK: No way. You have to wait until you come back before I tell you.
LORELAI: What? That’s not fair!
HUCK: Too bad. How’s your hen party?
LORELAI: Is that what you landed on? Hens? Not ladies?
HUCK: Still workshopping it.
LORELAI: Fun! Shelby is glowing and the blackberry gin fizzes are out of this world.
HUCK: Are you getting nervous for tomorrow?
I’m singing tomorrow at the wedding, and I’ve been stressing about it all week.
LORELAI: Yeah. Still don’t know why.
