Reading my mind like the stellar bartender he is, Kevin passes me a blackberry gin fizz and motions toward the private back room. “I’m ducking out in a few, but we’re locking the doors and Beth will be on the bar the rest of the night if you ladies need anything else.” Everyone in Le Croix, Michigan, has always treated Cam and Shelby well, rarely making a thing out of their celebrity. But the increase of attention around us in the last few years means we’re extra careful with our privacy, especially leading up to the wedding. Thus the extra exclusive bachelorette party.
“Thanks, Kev.”
Half a moment later, I’m being lovingly strangled and smothered by my two closest female friends in the entire world: Shelby Springfield and Maren Laughlin. Shelby and I met outside a therapist’s office more than five years ago. She was nursing a Hollywood pop princess meltdown and I was grieving the abrupt cancellation of my country music career.
The therapist didn’t last, but our friendship did. Maren grew up with Shelby and is the seductive mythological mix of park ranger meets beauty queen. Her fame is limited to a since-retired YouTube channel where she paid her way through college with endorsements earned off footage from her guided musky fishing tours. Honestly, if we went off recognition, Maren might have Shelb and me beat. Not a day went by back when I lived near them that some frat boy or another wasn’t stopping Mare and asking for her autograph. We all want to think those boys were learning about jigging techniques, but the honest truth is Mare’s a babe and fishing was her very memorable brand of “hot girl shit.”
I choke on Shelby’s shoulder-length blond waves and step back, dislodging myself from their arms. Kevin’s wife, Beth, interrupts our squealing, carrying in a tray of tapas. She looks to me, points to the dishes, and says, “Designated fryer,” before turning to Shelby, pointing to the pitcher of iced lemonade and assuring her it’s nonalcoholic. We shuffle to the table to help her and then we all settle in. My understanding was that Cameron was having a whole backyard barbecue at his and Shelby’s place tonight, but because the press can be dicks in their portrayal of women, Shelby decided to keep her “bachelorette party” to the four of us.
She spends the next hour filling us in on wedding details and last-minute Lyle drama （her idiot showrunner/ ex-boyfriend wanted HomeMade cameras there to capture the ceremony; Cam told him to fuck off）， and Ada Mae drama （Shelby’s attention-seeking mom told some gossip rag that she hadn’t been invited, when obviously she had, but declined the invite on her own）， and honeymoon details （of which Shelby had none because Cameron used to work as a documentarian with National Geographic and has planned their month-long getaway in secret）。
I knew I liked that man.
Beth makes me another gin fizz and it’s even better than her husband’s. And by better, I mean stronger. All this talk about how amazing Cameron is has me sucking my drink through a straw, which everyone knows is the quickest, most polite way to get sauced. It’s not that I’m jealous. At least not in a negative kind of way. I’m so fucking happy for my friends, I could burst. No one on earth deserves more than those two. I just wish my own love life wasn’t such a disaster. God, was it only this morning my ex-fiancé was at my door all eager and buffed up and ready for a weekend as my wedding date?
A pained groan escapes the back of my throat at the memory. Shelby arches a recently shaped brow in my direction. “Something to share with the class, Ms. Jones?”
I make a face. “Ugh. I really don’t want to put the bad vibes out into the universe or whatever, but Drake showed up at my front door this morning, all packed and ready to be my date for this weekend.” Shelby splutters and Maren tsks in sympathy.
“Wait. Drake as in Drake Colter?” Beth asks, her hand frozen midway to dipping a still-warm-from-the-fryer tortilla chip into a bowl of freshly made guacamole. “As in your ex?”
“That’s the one.” I drop my forehead to the table with a soft thud. “The self-absorbed jackhole assumed I wouldn’t have a date and figured now was as good a time as any to reunite. Even booked two first-class tickets. Clearly for show, because it’s not like I wouldn’t have already gotten my own ticket.”
“Unreal,” Maren says softly. “The idiot.”
“Total idiot.”
“He just … showed up with tickets? That’s bold, even for him.”
I grimaced. “He may have spent the morning texting me and posting shit on social media, but I’ve been busy pretending he doesn’t exist.”
Maren pulls out her phone and after a second, flips it around to where Drake’s post about going to a wedding this weekend is still up. “Guess he doesn’t actually have to go as long as he says he went on his Instagram. Kind of a ‘tree falling in the forest’ sitch,” Maren points out.
“But you asked Craig to be your date, right?” Shelby asks, butting in.
I blink at her, bemused and, let’s face it, a little sluggish from the gin fizz. “I did not.”
“Wait, why? You mean he’s really not here?”
I narrow my eyes at her whiny tone. Like I said, everyone loves Huck. “He’s really not here. He drove me to the airport. Which threw Drake for one hell of a loop when Huck walked right past where he was standing on my stoop declaring his love and grabbed my luggage to throw it in the back of his Subaru.”
Beth gasped, her short blond ponytail bobbing adorably. “Drake said he loved you?”
“Did Craig hear that part?” Shelby sounds more alarmed than the situation calls for, if you ask me.
I blink at her again. “Um, maybe? But it’s not true. Obviously. He said something like”—I drop into my best dude bro voice—“‘I still love you and you still love me’ … but I told him I definitely don’t love him anymore and I don’t think he ever could have left me the way he did if he loved me.”
“Good for you,” Maren says, approving.
“What did Craig say?” Shelby presses.
I stare at her. “Nothing.” I gesture to my disgruntled female anatomy. “Thoroughly friend zoned on that front.”
“Yeah, but, like, what about your one-night stand?”
I glance at the door behind me, to reassure myself it’s still closed. It is, and more than that, the entire restaurant is dark aside from our cozy room. “Well, Shelb, darlin’，” I drawl, “I suppose that was it. One night. Like, a bunch of years ago. And it only happened because I was leaving town.” I take another long draw from my straw, feeling my frown when I suck up gin-flavored air.
“I find that hard to believe. Have you tried to make a move on him recently?”
Slouching back in my chair, I grab a tortilla chip, dunking it in the salsa and stuffing it in my mouth, petulantly chewing. After swallowing, I say, “Definitely not. He’s my land lord and also sort of my boss. That’s got to be illegal or at the very least ethically shady.”
Shelby shakes her head. “Never thought I’d see the day Lorelai Jones is worried about ethics.”
“I’m not!” I insist to their knowing faces. “I’m just … I’m completely fucking over it, okay? I was engaged to be married once. I planned an actual wedding with flower arrangements and bridesmaid dresses and themed cocktails. I spent the first half of my twenties thinking I was in love and we were going to be together forever. That we would have babies and gold albums and share a tour bus … but then Drake just … took it all away. One song and poof! Gone. He couldn’t love me anymore.”