Page 12

SYMPHONY

I have one hell of a wedding hangover.

After Diesel took off, I was big mad at everyone.

Bailey for cockblocking me with her cockpounding .

The whole Pickle family for pissing Diesel off enough that he left.

The wedding for lasting too long. The band for playing sentimental stuff that made me feel worse.

Even Jenna and Marietta wouldn’t stop going on and on about what Diesel must have done to leave me with my hair that way and why did he “eat and run,” not that I told them a single scintillating detail.

Some twelve-year-old girl caught the bouquet. Not that I wanted it.

I spiraled, and even three pieces of cake didn’t help.

This Sunday morning, with the hairspray and makeup and grit of being outdoors for hours washed away, I feel very alone.

The tiny wheel in my hamster’s cage starts squeaking. I roll over on the bed, still in my fluffy robe, and watch him stroll along the metal spokes, almost as if he knows all the work is getting him nowhere.

“Same, Sir Mix-a-Lot, same.”

Sir Mix-a-Lot pauses at my voice, then starts walking again.

I force myself to get up. Summer classes start tomorrow.

I have a reading assignment to finish before the first lecture.

Bailey, who completed her coursework in May and has moved on to her thesis, warned me that I better know this book cover to cover before getting started, or I’ll feel behind from day one.

Jenna is taking the class, too, but Marietta has to work to save up money for her next tuition bill.

I could call Jenna over to read together. She’s better at talking out loud to make sure the information sticks. Marietta gets distracted. Bailey has a bulletproof memory that needs no additional help.

But I don’t want to go anywhere or do anything except ruminate on Diesel.

I have pictures of him now. Lots of people at the wedding took shots and tagged Bailey. There are several of him sitting beside me at the bridesmaid table, kicked back, looking sexy and cool.

There’s also an informal shot from the family photo, taken either before or after the official one. Diesel is there, surrounded by the Pickles, looking as though he’d like to murder someone.

Probably Bailey. Or me. He definitely thought I might have been involved.

I don’t think he does now.

He told me I could visit him at the bar, but he didn’t go so far as to give me a way to contact him.

I reach for my phone and do a quick search for the Leaky Skull. It has no social media accounts, which doesn’t surprise me. It’s the wrong kind of place for cute drink photos or atmospheric interior shots.

There’s a Google listing with the address and phone number, though. I suppose I could call. I wouldn’t be surprised if they never answered, though. It’s the sort of place you go to because you’ve always gone there, or there was nowhere else to drink.

Almost all the reviews are one star. I scan the first lines.

I thought I was going to get knifed.

This is why they call alcohol poison.

Only go here to get kidnapped.

They all seem to be written by regular people who didn’t know what they were getting into, like us at the bachelorette.

I doubt any of the bikers or ex-military there bother with reviews.

And I can’t imagine Diesel cares what anybody says.

I don’t blame him for bailing on the wedding. Those Pickles were total assholes, acting like they could jump in and judge Diesel’s business just because he and his brother did it without Pickle help. They haven’t even been there.

Good on Diesel for telling them off.

I flip onto my back. Maybe I should have hiked up my dress and taken off on his bike. I wonder where he would have taken me. To his bar? To his place?

What kind of home does he have? Does he live with his brother? Does he have one-nighters all the time? Has he ever had a long-term thing with anybody?

I know nothing.

And I want to know.

I reach for my phone again and look at the bar’s hours.

Sunday, 3 p.m. to 2 a.m.

I could go.

But I won’t.

This book isn’t going to read itself.

I reach for it and flip to my bookmark. The ebook price was outrageous, so I grabbed a used copy. I like filling up the margins with notes, anyway.

The Origins of Totalitarianism . Part II. Imperialism.

I don’t get past two paragraphs before I’m back to picturing Diesel on his bike. A man riding off into the sunset on a motorcycle is quite the image. I wish I had a photo.

I prop my chin on my fist. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle.

Dang. I missed my chance.

More visions dance in front of me. Looking down to see his face at my belly. He munched like it was his job . Nobody I’ve dated has been, like, eager to do that. Maybe dutiful. A quick prep before the main event.

But Diesel was intense. I think he would have stayed down there all night.

And I’m aware that he got nothing in return.

Something I should fix.

Something I want to fix.

I glance at the clock. Barely noon. His bar doesn’t open for hours.

No, no. I can’t go even if I finish the book by then. I’m not going to a biker bar for a hookup.

I force myself to look at a page. Imperialism. Come on. Read .

I make it through two pages before I get a text.

Something in my foolish heart thinks it could be Diesel. Which is ridiculous. He doesn’t have my number.

But he could probably get Rhett’s, who would tell Bailey, who could give him mine. They’re probably not on the boat yet.

But it’s not Diesel. It’s Marietta.

Marietta: When are we going back to the bar?

She read my mind. Of course, she’s just interested in the bikers, but still.

Me: It’s not open until three

Marietta: So we go at three!

Me: It’s a terrible idea

Marietta: It’s a great idea!

I hesitate. What would happen if we did that? What if we just showed up?

Me: Don’t you think we should wait a while? A week or two?

Marietta: I’m about to start working weekends.

Me: Oh, right.

Marietta: Come on! Let’s do it!

Me: We should at least wait until dark. It’s probably dead at three.

Marietta: Okay, I’ll take a nap. Last night went late.

Me: Good idea. Eight, then?

Marietta: I’ll come get you at eight.

I drop the phone like it’s hot.

Holy shit, I just decided to go see Diesel.