“I’ve had some fun,” I confirm.
“I bet women throw themselves at you all the time.”
“On tour? Yeah, pretty much. Especially now that I’m the last bachelor standing in my band. But not the right kind of woman.”
“Is there a wrong kind?”
“Groupies. Clout-chasers. Honestly, I’d much rather have an amazing girlfriend, than sleep with a succession of groupies. Unfortunately, I’ve discovered that finding true love is a lot easier said than done.”
“What? Dude, you’re the drummer of 22 Goats!”
“That’s the problem. I live in LA. Everyone I meet there is an aspiring model, actress, singer, or influencer who thinks hooking up with the drummer from 22 Goats will somehow boost her career.”
“So what? If a woman wants to use you for your connections or money or whatever, let her try. Doesn’t mean you have to let her succeed.”
I press my lips together and look out the car window at passing traffic. Dudes who’ve never been in my shoes always think that way. But they couldn’t be more wrong about the realities of my situation. The toll it takes on a person to constantly feel like a mark. To never know if you can completely trust someone. Or worse, to trust someone and find out you were wrong to do it. “Let me ask you this,” I say, returning to the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “If getting used by clout-chasers was such an awesome thing, then why would both my bandmates have settled down, the nano-second they found the real deal with someone?”
“Both your bandmates are married?”
“One is and the other might as well be.”
“And they’re your age?”
“A year younger.”
The driver whistles, like I’ve shocked him.
“That makes me the last man standing,” I continue. “And not only in my band, but in my entire friend group. Everyone I’m closest to in the world is all wifed up, or might as well be.”
“So what? If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you jump, too?”
“Absolutely. I’d be so distraught, I wouldn’t want to live another day.”
He rolls his eyes playfully.
“To be clear, I’d never settle down with the wrong woman, for the hell of it. But, yeah, if I met the right person, someone I trust, someone who loves me the way I love her, and we have awesome physical chemistry too, then why wouldn’t I want to jump in, head-first? Dating sucks, man. It’s exhausting.”
The driver ponders that for a moment. “You know what you should do, Colin? Date another celebrity—someone who’s as rich and famous as you are. That way you’d know she was into you for the right reasons.”
I smirk to myself. “I’ve tried that strategy, as a matter of fact. Recently. And it didn’t work out.”
“No?”
I shake my head. “As it turned out, the woman I’d set my sights on was already in love with someone else.”
“Pfft. What sane woman would want another guy over you?”
I chuckle. “You’re an amazing hype-man, dude. What’s your name?”
“Tim.”
“You rock, Tim.”
He laughs. “I’m just speaking the truth. If a woman doesn’t want you, then what hope is there for the rest of us?”
“Ever heard of Fugitive Summer?”
Tim nods. “They’ve got that song right now. ‘Hate Sex High.’”
I’m not surprised he knows the song. That raunchy, addicting tune about a woman riding a “hate sex high” to three orgasms is so wildly popular right now, this driver could turn on his car radio and find it playing on a random station in five seconds flat.
“The woman who turned me down is with the guy who sings that song,” I reveal. “He wrote it about her. ‘La la la la Laila.’”
The driver gasps. “Wait. He’s singing Laila there? Ha! I thought he was singing ‘la la la’ the whole time!” He gasps again. “It was Laila Fitzgerald who turned you down?”
I’m not surprised he’s connected the dots so quickly, given his earlier comment about watching Sing Your Heart Out. Thanks to that show, Laila Fitzgerald has become a household name—and as a result, her romance with Savage from Fugitive Summer, a guy with endless swagger and a huge social media following, is big pop-culture news these days.
“Hmm,” the driver says. “I can’t say I blame Laila for choosing that guy over of you. No offense, but have you seen him? He looks like a god.”
“I don’t blame her, either.”
“Plus, he wrote a song about her. Who could compete with that?”
“Not a drummer, that’s for sure. Wait a minute. You’re saying I don’t look like a god?”
“Oh. I . . .”
I laugh. “Just fucking with you, Tim. I’m well aware I can’t compete with Savage. Nobody could.”
“The good news is, with that guy off the market, the world is your oyster.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a god,” I tease.
“You’re a demi-god, though.”
We both laugh.
“You really are the best hype-man, ever, Timothy. May I call you that?”
“Please do.” His eyes crinkle in the rearview mirror with his smile. “Chin up, Colin. Your dream girl is out there, waiting for you to find her. She might even be at the wedding tomorrow. A bridesmaid, maybe? Bridesmaids are notoriously horny at weddings.”
“They are?”
“Of course! They’re all dressed up, drinking champagne. They’ve just watched their bestie exchanging romantic vows of forever. Weddings are the best aphrodisiacs in the world!”
“Well, that might be the case, generally speaking. But this wedding is gonna be more like a family reunion for me than an episode of Love Island. I grew up next door to the groom, remember? Both our families will be there.”
“But did you grow up with the bridesmaids?”
“No, I haven’t even met the bride yet.”
“Well, there you go. Bring on the bridesmaids! Boom.”
I scowl at him playfully. “Why are you so determined to get me laid at this wedding?”
“Because those who can are obligated to do for those who can’t.”
Again, I laugh. This guy is a gem.
Tim talks for a while about his good feeling about me finding love, any day now, until, finally, we’re pulling into my destination: the parking lot of the church where my buddy, Logan, will marry his dream girl tomorrow evening.
“I hope I made it in time to catch at least the end of the rehearsal,” I murmur.
“Parking lot’s packed,” the driver observes. “That’s a good sign.”
He pulls the car in front of the church, as I’m giving him a monster tip on my phone. When the car stops, I bolt from my seat and stride to the trunk for my garment bag. But before I’ve completed my task, Tim appears and sheepishly asks for a selfie.
“I know you’re running late . . .” he says. “But I’d love a photo to show my wife.”
“You got it, Hype-man. Of course.”
Our selfie snapped, and thanks and handshakes administered, I wish the driver well, grab my bag, and sprint toward the church, excited to spend the weekend with people who know me simply as Colin Beretta—or perhaps, “Logan’s longtime friend, Colin”—rather than “Colin from 22 Goats.”