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HUCK: Because you love them so much.
I bite my lip, warmed by how well he gets me.
LORELAI: That’s exactly it. You’re right. I should go. Maren’s back.
HUCK: Tell everyone I said hi. I’ll be around later tonight if you want to run through your performance.
I tuck my phone away and take another sip of my drink. Mindfuck indeed.
The following evening sparkles like the billions of stars in the crisp, clear northern night sky. Like the multi-facets of the glittering rock on my best friend’s finger. Like the fucking beams of joy glowing straight out of Cameron’s moony eyes when his bride literally danced down the aisle to his side.
It’s all incredibly romantic and I find myself floating around most of the day in my lavender chiffon bridesmaiddress, feeling as though I’m an extra in a 1950s Rodgers and Hammerstein. But I’m a little sad, too.
I stopped imagining my wedding the minute things broke off with Drake, but before that, it’s fair to say I was obsessed. As your typical small-town head cheerleader and prom queen, I used to sign up to model wedding dresses at bridal shows for extra cash on weekends during the season. After the runway shows, I’d walk around with my girlfriends, eating samples of sugary cakes and entering raffles for far-off Caribbean honeymoons. I had entire binders filled with clippings of my future wedding that I eventually replaced with multiple secret Pinterest boards.
And I know, now that I’m thirty-three and I’ve grown up and become someone who’s a far cry from that giggling teenager, all of that is pretty materialistic. But I was so close, you know? To making even the wildest of my dreams come true. It was within my grasp, and even understanding how shallow it was doesn’t seem to soothe the sting of not being wanted. Of not being worthy. I wasn’t the right kind of person to win Drake’s loyalty. He didn’t think I deserved that dream wedding with him by my side.
I know. Fuck that. Fuck it all straight to hell, obviously.Obviously.
But just for a moment, in my yards of chiffon and half-drunk on champagne bubbles, I get to feel sad, okay? I get to mourn thecould have beenand maybe even get all the way drunk on champagne bubbles. I’ll eat my lovely specially made gluten-free, vegan frosted cookies and watch the groom spin the bride around and around and remember that there was a time I hoped I could dazzle someone like that.
But I guess I couldn’t.
Okay. Pity party over. I pull out my phone and snap a few pictures to post to social media, because at the end of the day, I still need to make sure I’m relevant or whatever.
I zoom in on Shelby and Cam, completely absorbed in each other as they sway back and forth to a Maren Morris song and click. Then I take a picture of my cookies, tagging the caterer and raving about how delicious and allergy free they are. Hopefully, they’ll get a boost in their sales.
Finally I lean my head in one hand, tired, but still holding up nicely, and take an elegant selfie, tipping my champagne flute toward the camera in a toast, letting the twinkle lights soften my features and the alcohol widen my grin. I post the pictures, writing underneath:
Today was better than anything I could have dreamed up for my best friends. Only missing one scrawny thirty-six-year-old drinker of only the driest Cab.
Because I’m beginning to realize, whenever I’ve needed him, he’s always been there.
4CRAIG
STONE
My phone rings, jarring in the silence of an empty studio, and I knock over a mostly empty cardboard coffee cup. I can practically hear my engineer Arlo Bishop’s lecture about the dangers of having liquids around his precious soundboard. In my (admittedly weak) defense, it’s Saturday night and I’m alone. I paid for said precious soundboard and I can spill room-temperature Americano on it if I damn well please.
Nevertheless, I quickly swipe at the single drop of hours-old coffee precariously rolling between two levers and threatening to collapse four years of blissful partnership before reaching for my phone. Arlo might look like a small, pleasant Danny Kaye type, but he’s a fucking barracuda on Jim Beam if you mess with his equipment.
I grin at the name that flashes on my screen. It’s true I came here to be alone, but I’ll never mind these kinds of phone calls.
“Hey, Uncle Craig, it’s me, Dustin.” Because all my niecesand nephews announce themselves even though their names flash on the Caller ID. Dustin just got his first phone for his twelfth birthday and I’m one of the few contacts he’s allowed. Ergo, I get a lot of calls from the little dude.
“Hey, D, how’s it going?”
“Fine. Mom said I should call you and ask if you want to come for brunch tomorrow.”
Just the thought of my older sister’s homemade biscuits and gravy makes my stomach growl, and a glance at my wristwatch confirms it’s long past dinner. “I’ll be there. What’s the occasion?” Not that I need a reason, but I don’t want to show up empty-handed if it’s someone’s birthday or other. I stopped trying to keep track of the family calendar long ago. As the token (and much younger) bachelor brother, I’m basically exempt, anyway.
But I have a stack of used vinyl records that’s historically worked in a pinch, especially for my older nieces and nephews, and they have the added bonus of spreading the gospel of lyrical brilliance.
I’m mentally flipping through my collection for one to part with when Dustin tells me, “Jenna got into ’Bama.”
I groan with a laugh that echoes in the empty booth. “Oh, man, Uncle Scott owes me fifty bucks. I knew she’d Roll Tide in the end.” While my siblings didn’t inherit millions from Uncle Huckleberry, they haven’t done half bad for themselves, either, to the extent that I’ll happily collect my winnings.
“Yeah, he’s not gonna be happy about that!”
