Love Songs & Other Lies(31)

“Five years from now, I’m going to be backstage at some crazy music festival,” Vee says. “I’ll be doing interview prep with a coked-out but adorable guitarist with a heart of gold, who will eventually clean up his act and ask me to marry him.” We’re lying on the beach on a particularly cold September night, and I love that she’s holding my hand even while telling me about her imaginary future husband.

“I’m glad to hear I’ll finally kick the habit one day.” I squeeze her hand, bumping her shoulder gently with mine. “Please tell me I at least get to go to one of those fancy celebrity rehabs—in Malibu or something?”

I know she’s trying to get me to share my plans for the future—for college, probably—but I don’t have any. Vee has The Plan, and probably a Plan B, and C, and F, and when I think about the future I don’t really see anything. The furthest I think ahead is looking forward to lying on the beach with her night after night. It has quickly become the only constant thing in my life. And finally, I don’t feel like I’m running. It’s fun to imagine a future filled with normal things like getting married someday. Even if I do have questionable habits in this particular scenario.

“Where’s the wedding?” I ask.

“Oh, we’ll probably do something nontraditional. You know, get married in the redwood forests, or in a field, or something.”

“I’m not getting married in a field.” And forests are filled with ticks. Why would we not get married on a beach, or at a golf club, like normal people?

“It’s not going to be a cow pasture. It’ll be a wildflower field or something.”

“Not happening.”

“Excuse me?” She slams our joined hands into my hip. “You’re the one who invited yourself into my imaginary scenario. You’ll get married wherever I say.”

I laugh, thinking of Bridezilla Vee, barking orders at caterers and florists and bringing me nineteen different flavors of cake to try, before she finds the One. My sister used to love those shows about crazy, screaming brides, and the thought of her stops my laughter in its tracks. “Nontraditional in a field. Got it. Do I at least get to pick out our song or something?”

“As long as it doesn’t suck. I’m not dancing to anything cheesy and overplayed, like Frank Sinatra or Louis Armstrong.”

“I’d write you an original song. Obviously.” I say it as though I’ve had this plan for months. Years maybe. As if I’ve ever thought about any of this before this very strange, exact moment. “And a symphony would play with me. It would be like rock meets classical. Very nontraditional, very rock royalty.” I lay my cheek against the blanket we’re lying on, so I can look at her. “We are rock royalty in this scenario, right?”

She nods and rolls her eyes. “I don’t think my parents are splurging for a symphony.”

“Hey, I’m a big-shot, formerly coked-out rock star. I’m sure I saved for my wedding.”

She giggles. “What formerly coked-out rock star wouldn’t?”

“Exactly. Anyway, your parents won’t like me much when they find out about my little problem.” I tap my nose dramatically.

“Former problem,” she corrects in a very serious voice. A chunk of hair falls onto my forehead and Vee pushes it away with a warm hand.

I’m never getting another haircut. “Right. I’m sure they’ll hate our rock-meets-symphony field-wedding so much they won’t pay for it, anyway.”

“I want Rice Krispies treats!” Vee shouts.

“Right now?”

“No, for our wedding. I want a cake made out of Rice Krispies treats.”

I love the way she’s playing along so easily, and I love that with Vee I can actually joke about an imaginary wedding—my imaginary wedding—without feeling like I may lose my dinner on this beach. If my ex had brought up our wedding—hell, if she’d brought up going to a wedding—I probably would have broken out in hives. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be playing along. But there’s something about Vee that’s different. And it’s not that marrying her is so unimaginable that I can just joke about it. Vee is just … easy. Easy to be with, and easy to talk to, and completely, one hundred percent genuine, in a way that I know I don’t deserve. I can’t give her the same thing. It’s reason number 192 I should stick with my plan of keeping this platonic.

“I’m not eating Rice Krispies treats at my wedding,” I say. “They’re like slimy rubber chunks.”

“But they’re my favorite,” she whines.

“Not happening, sweetheart. I draw the line at marshmallow anything at our wedding.”

“You’re totally unreasonable.”

“Do we get to have a bar? Or am I a recovering drunk, too? Do we have to have a hot chocolate bar or something lame like that?”

“God, hot chocolate sounds good,” she says.

“For our wedding?”

“No, for now. It’s cold tonight.” She leans over, resting her head on my shoulder, and wiggling closer so her chest is pressed up against my side. For the hundredth time since I met her, I have to talk myself out of kissing her. I don’t deserve it. Or her. And this isn’t even what I came here for.

“You want to leave?” I ask, slipping my hand out of hers and looping it under her neck, pulling her tighter to me. “We can stop at the gas station and get your hot chocolate.”