I’ve been avoiding it for a long time but I think he’s right. I need to try telling parts of my story. My real story—not just all the modern dating stories I steal from Imani’s adventures on Tinder. “Okay, I’ll do my best.”

  “Now, there’s one last piece of advice I have for you. But it might be the most important.”

  “Okay, what’s that?”

  “Trust your comedy.”

  I guess that’s good advice, however— “Thanks, but I do trust my comedy.”

  “I say this as a friend, but half this tour you didn’t and it showed. I know you have all this apparent confidence but I could hear the doubt in your voice in D.C., Mississippi, and Atlanta. You can’t doubt because when you do, you bomb. Not just you, all of us. Every. Single. Time. So”—Nick stands up and tosses some cash on the table—“I’m gonna leave you to prepare.”

  “The whole day?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Use it wisely. I’ll see you at the show.”

  Then, it’s just me, my coffee, my legal pad, and my stories. Here we go.

  * * *

  —

  When it’s nearly showtime, Nick’s nowhere to be seen so I hang out in the wings as the opening acts warm up the crowd with the help of the drinks being served.

  “Hey.” Nick taps my shoulder and I whip around.

  “Where’ve you been? The poker tables?” I ask.

  “Maybe. So how’s it looking tonight?”

  I flash him a folded legal sheet, the one I’ve been scribbling on all day. “Good. I thought a lot about what you said and worked out some new material I’m going to try tonight.”

  “Really?” His brows shoot up like he’s about to tell me it’s not a good idea. How can I trust my comedy if I can’t also trust myself? So I hold firm.

  “Yes. It’s not like we have time for me to do an open mic. This is my chance.”

  “I feel the same way.” Nick pulls something from his pocket, holding it between his shaky fingers. It’s his wedding ring. Not a speck of drain gunk on it.

  “Why do you have that?” I ask.

  “I’m going to try some new material too. About my divorce. I think it’s time. And I think it’ll help.”

  I place my hand on his leather-clad shoulder. “I’m proud of you, buddy. Are you using the ring as a prop?”

  “No, I thought maybe I could pawn it after the show,” he says, stuffing it back in his pocket like it’s nothing but a nickel.

  “I don’t know if the shops stay open that late.” Who knows what kind of funny stuff people in Vegas pawn in the middle of the night?

  “Then we’ll take a drive and I’ll chuck it in the desert or something,” Nick says, and I watch his expression to see how serious he is. “I don’t want this thing that happened to hold me back anymore, you know?”

  I nod. “Take your pain and play with it.”

  “Exactly.”

  The emcee begins my introduction and I stuff my notes in my back pocket. “I have to go,” I say, and lean up on my toes, laying a little kiss on Nick’s cheek—right where his dimple is. “Wish me laughs.”

  His eyes lock with mine for a moment before I turn for the stage. I stretch out my hands, my mouth, and adjust my glasses as the emcee calls my name. “Let’s give it up for Olivia Vincent!”

  Now I have to trust my comedy.

  “Hello, Las Vegas! How y’all doing tonight?” They all cheer. “You know, Vegas is a great city. I absolutely love it! Don’t you?” The crowd gives a little cheer, like the city hasn’t taken their money yet. “Yeah, it’s amazing—the lights, the shows, the creepy men on the street peddling escort flyers. It’s the best!” This gets a laugh so I take a beat. Make that two.

  “Vegas isn’t for everyone. In fact, for single women approaching thirty”—I point to myself with a cringing expression—“Vegas is the worst place you can be. Everywhere you go, some chick in her twenties is tying the knot. You know there are drive-thru chapels? That is the most American invention I’ve ever heard of. What’s next? Drive up for the vows, then drive around to pick up your divorce papers at the second window?”

  Hahahahahaha! Hear that?

  “I’m not gonna lie, I’m straight up jealous of young brides. They’re always flaunting around in their bedazzled bride tops with their posse of girlfriends, who wish her well to her face but secretly think she’s making a mistake by marrying Gary. I know, it’s not a great husband name. Sorry, Garys—you’ll have to die alone this round.”

  I don’t know any men named Gary but I do hope he has a good sense of humor because the audience gets it. “But seriously, I’m just jealous because my bedazzled shirt says, Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. Except the always is crossed out and it says never a bridesmaid.” I gesture to my white T-shirt, getting into a little of my own story.

  “It’s true. I have married friends but never make the wedding party cut. You see, brides are very particular about the aesthetics. It’s like they get engaged and then become judges of America’s Next Top Bridesmaid.

  “I’m not kidding. Did you hear about that bridezilla that kicked her friend out of her wedding party because the friend got cancer and lost her hair?” I make an aghast face. “I know, it’s terrible. But don’t worry. Karma will bite her in the ass. Because you know who she’s marrying? Gary.” Now I’m just being playful, having fun. “Ah, bless your heart, Gary.

  “I know why I never get picked though.” I let out a sigh. “Because I slept with the groom.” This gets a nice laugh but I keep going. “I misjudged Gary. He is good in bed!”

  I wait for the break, the silence after the laughter dies. “I’m kidding—I’m not a terrible human being. But I do wear glasses and brides don’t make passes at friends that wear glasses. Seriously, have you ever seen a four-eyed bridesmaid? No, exactly, because if you did, the flash from the group photo would reflect off her lenses making it look like she’s shooting lasers out of her eyes. And the only person allowed to shoot lasers out of her eyes is that bitch, bridezilla.”

  Considering it’s the first time I’ve told this joke, the laugh is pretty respectable. I continue, “So yeah, I’ve never been a bridesmaid but I have been asked to be a reference on a girlfriend’s résumé, which is probably because . . . I wear glasses.” The crowd laughs and I spot several four-eyed women in the audience who totally get it. They’re my people. I transition into my usual set with some new material sprinkled in. By the end of it, the crowd roars with satisfying laughter.

  “That’s my time, everyone. I’m Olivia Vincent. You’ve been great!” I hand the mic off to the emcee and walk over to Nick, who’s waiting for me.

  “I got ’em all warmed up for you,” I say, just like the first night we met.

  “Now that’s the kind of foreplay I like.” It takes every ounce of strength I have not to grab Nick by the collar and pull him in for a kiss. Maybe more. But instead I wish him laughs and watch him walk onstage.

  * * *

  —

  After the show, Nick completely sells out his box of merchandise. “I think that’s everything I have,” he says. “There’s nothing left for L.A.”

  “What are you talking about, there’s like five more boxes in the Jeep.”

  He takes a beat then it clicks. “Oh, yeah. Right. I forgot.”

  “You okay?” I ask. “Those nicotine patches going to your brain?”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe. C’mon, let’s play some poker.”

  “Wish me money!” I say, and we exit the auditorium.

  Nick and I make our way over to the poker tables in the nonsmoking section. “How ’bout some Texas Hold ’Em?” he asks in his best West Texas accent. But it’s the worst.

  “How ’bout you leave the accent up to me, cowboy?”

  Just as we find an open table and place our bets, the guy sitting to Nick’s right stares at us. He’s wearing Nick’s Buh-Bye shirt—fresh out of the box with folded creases and a blue collar poking out beneath it. “Hey, we just met you guys.” He points to each of us and we greet them (again).

  “I’m Chuck and this is my fiancée, Amy.”

  Amy stands over his shoulder with a pink cocktail in her hands. “Your bridesmaid bit was so funny. Is that true, you’ve never been a bridesmaid?”

  “Sad, I know.”

  Amy pouts her lip. “Oh, bless your heart. Ohmigod!” The woman squeals so loud my ear’s ringing. “I have a great idea. We have an appointment at the chapel tonight, and we don’t have any witnesses.” She looks to me. “How would you like to finally be a bridesmaid?”

  “Are you serious?” I say, then look to Nick.

  “Yes! You can be my maid of honor and Nick can be the best man. What do you say?”

  We said no more funerals but we didn’t say anything about weddings.

  Forty

  Nick manages to move the other merch boxes around his Jeep enough to reset the back seats so there’s room for the four of us.

  “Where to?” he asks, after we load in.

  “The Elvis Chapel,” Chuck says, his arm cradling a blissful Amy. Nick and I do our best to hold back the laughs growing inside us but we can’t.

  “What’s so funny?” Amy asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “We just love Elvis.”

  After a short ride on the highway, Nick parks in front of an Elvis wedding chapel. I don’t know exactly what we’re in for with this wedding but I have a feeling it’ll make great material. Inside, we’re greeted by a Chest Hair Elvis (trust me, you don’t want me to elaborate).

  “You see the rug on that guy?” Nick says out of the side of his mouth as we make our way toward the wedding hall.

  “Jealous?” I ask.

  Inside the hall, rows of linen-covered chairs lead up to a faux marble platform rimmed with twinkle lights that fade from purple to red to blue and white. Tall pillar-style columns flank the stage, complete with a set of silk flower arrangements. It’s not exactly the fairy-tale dream but it’s better than a drive-thru. The staff promptly serves us glasses of champagne.

  “Shouldn’t we wait until after the ceremony to drink?” I ask.

  “No way, this is Vegas!” Chuck says.

  “To Chuck and Amy!” Nick says, toasting us, and we all raise our glasses in celebration before shooting the bubbly back.

  “You two are so cute,” Amy says. “Are you together?”

  I nearly choke on my champagne and Nick lays his arm around my shoulders. “We are. I asked her to marry me but she said no.” If only that were true.

  Amy doesn’t seem to know how to respond so I take over. “He’s kidding. We’re just buddies. Like Jerry Seinfeld and Elaine.”

  “That was a great show,” she says. “But I’ll never understand why Jerry and Elaine didn’t end up together. Instead they end up in jail!”

  Nick looks at me. “We haven’t been to jail on this tour.”

  “Something to look forward to,” I say with a wink, when really I’m thinking Nick and Olivia should have the happy ending Jerry and Elaine never got.

  “Now who’s ready to get hitched?” JP Elvis enters the building, commanding our attention with his red-and-gold bell-bottom jumpsuit. Whoa. Now that’s commitment. He instructs the guys to take their places while they get the music ready, and Amy and I step outside so she can collect her bouquet and make her grand entrance.

  “I’m so nervous.” Amy’s flowers quiver in her hands. “Do you get nervous before you go onstage?”

  “Every night. But once I pick up the mic, I’m good.”

  “Wow.” She fans herself. “I can’t believe I’m getting married.”

  “I can’t believe I get to be a bridesmaid. Now I have to rewrite my joke.”

  She lets out a high-pitched laugh, clutching her bouquet. “How do I look?”

  I take her in, her white minidress and pink peep-toe pumps. “You’re glowing.” Almost a little too much. “Wait, is this a shotgun wedding?”

  “Honey, I hope not because I’ve been drinking cocktails all night.”

  Then, JP Elvis strums an acoustic guitar and begins to sing “All Shook Up.” One of the staff members instructs us to proceed down the aisle. “I’m getting married!” Amy says.

  “Yes, you are.” I adjust my glasses, grab the mini bouquet, and begin the wedding march—well, more like a wedding walk. Nick catches my eye and the sensations of little butterflies flutter in my belly. With those eyes, that smile, it’s impossible to look away. I feel myself blushing like . . . like a bride!

  I send Chuck a congratulatory smile—and notice he’s no longer wearing Nick’s Buh-Bye shirt but his pressed blue button-down. I take my place across from Nick in front of the matrimony platform, thinking of that day-one lesson again—Be prepared for anything. I know I asked the guy to move in but I’m not remotely prepared for just how good Nick looks at the head of an altar. No wonder his ex-wife snagged him up.

  Amy makes her entrance, gracefully, considering how many pink drinks she must’ve had. I look over at JP Elvis and it’s hard to hold a straight face, but once the vows begin, I forget that we’re in a little chapel in Las Vegas and instead I’m just watching two crazy lovebirds promise to love each other no matter what.

  “Now for the rings,” JP Elvis says, looking to the groom, then the bride.

  Amy gasps as Chuck reaches in his pocket. “Oh, no, babe! I forgot your ring back at the hotel. Oh, crap, I’m so sorry.”

  Are rings even necessary for a Vegas wedding?

  Just before JP Elvis declares this wedding a disaster, Nick speaks out. “I got it.” He digs his heartbreak out of his pocket and hands it to Amy as if it’s brand-new again.

  “How do you have it? Are you one of those magician comics?” Amy asks.

  “No, it was mine. Maybe you two will have better luck with it.”

  It’s official. Nick’s divorced and he’s ready to move on.

  The couple trade the rings and repeat I do’s. Then Chuck takes Amy in his arms and dips her like he’s a navy sailor in Times Square. Nick and I cheer for the happy couple and JP Elvis starts up “Love Me Tender.” The newlywed Mr. & Mrs. Vegas begin dancing, swaying to the music.

  Nick approaches me from across the aisle. “So how does it feel to finally be a bridesmaid?”

  “Better than when I lost my virginity. What about you? How does it feel letting your ring go?”

  “Better than when I got married.” We turn our attention back to the dancing couple. Nick leans closer like he wants to tell me a secret. “Love meat tender . . .” he sings along, and I laugh, thinking of how ridiculous yet adorable Nick looked in that Elvis jumpsuit in Memphis.

  The song fades out and the happy couple share in one more kiss. Flashes spark around them as the photographer wildly clicks the camera.

  “How about one more song?” Nick says, handing JP Elvis a twenty, and makes his request. Soon, our maestro picks the guitar strings in the lovely little melody—“Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Nick shyly offers his hand and I take it, trying to play it cool. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m back at the eighth-grade prom and my crush just asked me to dance. Only Nick is much more than a crush.

  Taking the lead, he wraps his arm tightly around my waist and we sway to the soft music. This time much closer than we were at Graceland. It’s hard not to grin from ear to ear. What a perfect ending to a great night with a great man.

  Nick spins me around and brings me back into his arms. “Not to sound corny, but I think this is our song.”

  Our song. He thinks we have a song?

  Don’t freak out, Olivia. Just say something cute.

  “Really? And here I thought it was ‘Girls, Girls, Girls.’ ”

  He lets out that rich laugh and it warms my heart to know I inspired it. “You’re not like any stand-up I’ve ever known.”

  “Yeah, neither are you.”

  His soft, sweet smile falls. “Olivia, I need to tell you something,” he starts, and I know he’s about to say something important—something he hasn’t had the courage to say yet.

  “What is it?”

  “I . . . um,” he stammers, and stops.

  “What? You can say it.”

  His eyes search mine like he’s unsure. I watch him take a breath, then let it go. “I really want to kiss you again.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  Forty-One

  Nick takes his time, leaning in slowly. Our lips meet in the kind of kiss even Elvis would write songs about. He tastes like champagne and mint—refreshingly intoxicating. Not a trace of smoke in the slightest. His hands press into my back, pulling me closer, and I fall deeper and deeper and—

  “Hey, whose love story is this anyway?” Chuck yells, yanking us out of our magical moment. Nick and I share a we’ve been caught glance and I run my finger across my lip, feeling the buzz of his skin on mine.

  * * *

  —

  Afterward, Nick takes my hand like I’m his girl and I hold on tight. The four of us cross the threshold, where a leather-clad Elvis waits, leaning against the roof of a white limo. “Nelson party?” he asks.

  “That’s us,” Chuck says, and looks at his bride. “After you, Mrs. Nelson.” She giggles then glides inside. We’re ready to wave them off when Chuck offers us a ride back to the hotel. “Anything for the best man and maid of honor,” he adds.

  Nick and I share a look.

  “When in Vegas?” I say, shrugging.

  “Yeah, why not?” We climb in the back next to the newlyweds, where the Elvis tunes carry on and the minibar awaits.

  Nick and I sit suitably shoulder to shoulder across from the bride and groom. Still, it doesn’t stop me from imagining what I’d do to Nick if we had the limo to ourselves. By the look in Nick’s eyes, he has a similar fantasy. Thank God the hotel’s not far. These next ten minutes are about Mr. and Mrs. Chuck Nelson. The next ten hours . . . well, we’ll see.