Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
In my bride era
Lulu
The karaoke club is a riot of neon and sequins, as if someone tipped a disco ball over Denver and told it to never stop spinning.
Our VIP booth glows under hot pink lights, the table already cluttered with champagne and jewel-bright cocktails, each one crowned with sparklers, umbrellas, or fruit skewers stabbed in at all angles.
Charlie sits in the center, tiara slipping in her long red hair, a satin “Bride” sash cutting across her sparkly dress. She keeps insisting she’s “too classy for karaoke,” which is hilarious considering this is the same woman who once tackled Zoe in a Taco Bell parking lot over the last nacho fry.
Tonight, though, she’s radiant—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, sipping champagne, and one hand pressed to her chest, repeating how she can’t believe this night is for her.
Which is exactly when the cake arrives.
Heart-shaped and delicately decorated with pastel icing, carried in by a server who looks like he’s questioning all his life choices, and set right in the middle of the table.
In looping letters across the top: In Her Bride Era.
And beneath it, piped in pink and glittery silver, the outline of a hand giving the finger—except it’s the ring finger, with an iced ring big enough to shame the Hope Diamond.
Charlie makes a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob, clutching at her tiara to keep her from dissolving into the floor. “Lulu. Oh my god, I love you.”
“What?” I say innocently, though I’m already giggling. “It’s accurate. Era-specific. On brand, especially the ring.”
Zoe leans over to snap photos, cackling. “This is art. Actual art.”
Claire nods in agreement. “This is so pretty!”
“I love this.” Tamara turns it to take a better look. “You’re now on cake duty for every single occasion.”
I beam, tucking my phone back into my clutch just as it buzzes against my thigh.
Logan: You there yet?
Me: Yep. VIP booth. Tiara deployed. Cake delivered. Situation sparkly.
The prosecco is already high in my bloodstream, but it’s nothing compared to the warm flip in my chest when I see his name.
Across the table, Zoe catches my eye, her grin sharp and conspiratorial. Weeks ago, after the Yoni lesson I subjected her to, we organized this. Tonight, it’s happening.
Tamara shifts closer, her sequined sleeve flashing under the lights as she tips her glass toward us in silent confirmation.
“Charlie has no idea,” Zoe murmurs, eyes glittering as we watch Charlie laugh with Claire.
“Which is exactly the point,” I say, taking another sip of my cocktail.
Tamara grins, sequins flashing under the neon. “We’re gonna ABBA-solutely blow her away.”
I choke on a laugh, pressing a hand to my mouth. “We’re gonna ABBA-serenade her.”
“We’re gonna ABBA-ssassinate her,” Zoe corrects, wicked grin widening.
Tamara giggles into her drink, and across the table, Charlie just tilts her head, catching us mid-conspiracy again. “What are you three plotting?”
“Nothing,” we chime in unison, far too quickly.
She narrows her eyes, but lets it go, basking in the attention, as she should.
Another buzz from my phone. I slip it open under the table.
Logan: How many drinks?
Me: Two. Why, you counting?
Logan: Just making sure my girlfriend is okay
I snort into my straw. The girls give me side-eyes, but I just wave them off, warmth blooming hotter than the prosecco in this cocktail. Even from his own night out, he’s a tether, solid and reliable, where I’m all fizz and sequins.
Zoe raises her glass, eyes on me like she knows I’m somewhere else for a second, then hums the opening bars of Super Trouper under her breath. Tamara tips her glass toward us in silent agreement, and I clink my glass to theirs, complicit in the crime.
Operation Super Trouper is officially locked with the DJ. We just need to wait for our turn on stage.
Another round arrives, and Zoe’s teaching us some kind of unhinged toast in bad Italian when my phone lights up again.
Logan: You good?
Me: More than good. Glitter in my veins. Sequins on my body.
Logan: …
Me: Don’t tell me you’re not picturing it.
Logan: Picturing those sequins coming off your body later, actually.
Me: Meanwhile, I’m picturing your hands.
Image received: It's Logan’s hand, broad and veined, sprawled over his thigh in ripped jeans, with absolutely no caption.
My knees knock the underside of the table, and I clutch the phone to my chest, half-shrieking into my drink.
Tamara’s eyes narrow instantly. “Okay, what was that?”
“Nothing,” I say way too fast, hiding behind my straw.
“Mm-hm.” She takes a slow sip, the picture of casual, except her gaze is razor-sharp. “Funny, because it looks exactly like the face someone makes when their… ‘wishlist’ is being checked off.”
Zoe chokes on her cocktail. “Wait, what wishlist?”
“Oh my god.” Charlie gasps, already leaning in, tiara tilting.
“Don’t you dare,” I hiss at Tamara, but she’s smirking into her glass.
“I’m just saying,” she murmurs, all faux innocence, “if you’re going to leave a jar full of fantasies in plain sight, maybe don’t also leave the evidence on the kitchen counter.”
Zoe slaps the table so hard the drinks rattle. “YOU DID NOT.”
“I didn’t!” I protest, voice cracking. “It wasn’t—”
Tamara arches a brow. “Then who exactly left a note about wanting, what was it… Oh, right, ‘to give the best head ever’… conveniently unfolded on your counter?”
Charlie covers her mouth with both hands, and Claire nearly falls out of her seat laughing. Zoe’s eyes go feral.
I’m already beet-red, sinking into the cushions. “I don’t have time for any of that. I’ve been very busy,” I blurt, trying to reroute. “School, the production, Halloween, the flood, dog-sitting—”
“Ah.” Tamara cuts in. “Dusty.”
Zoe pounces instantly. “As in Pookie’s Dusty?”
“He needed help, that’s all!” I feel my face combust as I throw my hands up a little too dramatically to pass for innocence.
“Sure,” Zoe says, slow and smug, her grin wicked enough to set the table on fire. “Help. With his dog. While he was conveniently not home…” She takes a slow sip of her drink. “And maybe sometimes when he is home, too. Mm.”
Tamara lifts her brows into her signature I don’t want details, but I see them kind of look. “Between the jar, the note, your sudden lack of dates, and the Halloween costume, I’m connecting more dots than I want to…”
Charlie groans, half-horrified, half-thrilled. “Oh my god, Lulu, are you—”
Before she can finish, the karaoke host’s voice booms through the mic: “Next up, we’ve got Zoe, Tamara, and Lulu to the stage!”
Charlie’s head snaps around, eyes wide. “What the hell?”
“Oh, this is going to be good!” Claire grins, phone already lifted to record.
Zoe shrieks like she’s just been crowned Miss Universe, seizing my hand in one and Tamara’s in the other. “Showtime, bitches!”
Before I can protest, I’m yanked out of the booth, sequins flashing under the neon as we stumble toward the stage. The host gives us each a mic, smirking as though he knows exactly what kind of chaos three drunk women are about to unleash.
Charlie’s watching with wide-eyed suspicion from the booth with Claire, her tiara askew. She shouts something over the noise—probably What are you doing?—but it’s swallowed by the bass and the crowd.
Zoe, of course, works the crowd like a pro, immediately speaking into her mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the absolute goddess in the tiara at the back! That’s our Charlie—isn’t she fucking gorgeous?”
The crowd roars approval, wolf whistles echoing, while Charlie drops her face into her hands.
“And!” Zoe adds, eyes shimmering. “She’s officially off the market, folks. One man, one dick for the rest of her life.” She pauses, cups her hand to the mic again in a whisper. “But apparently it’s a good dick.”
The club erupts with laughter, clapping, hoots from every direction. Charlie is screaming into her palms, shoulders shaking, tiara sliding dangerously low.
Tamara and I are already doubled over before the first notes of Super Trouper even hit. When they do, the lights swing to spotlight Charlie in the booth. She claps her hands over her face, groaning, but she’s glowing so hard she might combust.
Zoe belts the first lines of the song into her mic, completely off-key, but with the kind of confidence only tequila shots can muster. Tamara and I join in half a beat late, harmonies wobbling, and the whole club dissolves into laughter and applause.
By the chorus, we’ve turned it into some kind of chaotic threesome act, pointing at Charlie like sequined assassins. She’s shrieking into her hands, clapping along, mascara streaking as she yells the best lines with us, of somewhere in the crowd, there’s you.
Claire’s still filming like a paparazzo, Zoe’s hair is sticking to her lip gloss, Tamara’s wheezing laughter into her mic, and I’m swaying between them, dizzy on prosecco cocktails and far too much fun.
We screech through the last verse, collapse into each other for the final note, and the club erupts in applause that’s at least seventy percent ironic.
Once we stumble back down the steps and into the booth, Charlie drags us into a tiara-crushing hug, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “You guys are the worst,” she chokes out. “And I love you more than anything.”
When Charlie finally releases us, Zoe flops back into the booth like she’s just closed a Broadway show. Tamara collapses beside her, still hiccupping with laughter, while Claire is replaying the video already, cackling loud enough to draw dirty looks from the booth next to us.
“Alright,” Zoe declares, dramatic as hell, “we need to ride this high. Truth or Dare, bitches.”
There are groans all around and immediate objections, but everyone’s still smiling, half-drunk, ready to play.
“I’ll go first,” Tamara says gamely, crossing her arms.
“Fine, truth or dare?”
“Dare, obviously.”