Joint bachelor and bachelorette parties should be illegal.
The Canadians call thembuck and doe parties, but as an American, I just call thema waste of my fucking time. I must have been drunk when I agreed to this, because in no world would I soberly choose to subject myself to sitting on a party bus with a bunch of leering men and screeching women, watching the bride- and groom-to-be paw at each other while leaning against a stripper pole.
I’m barely keeping the grimace off my face as I take it all in, upper lip twitching every few seconds before I press it firmly against my bottom one. I’d be worried about my lipstick smudging if I didn’t already know it’s practically bombproof, put to the test through rounds of recipe development and tastings. If it can withstand buttercream frosting dolloped on top of a cupcake that you practically have to unhinge your jaw to take a bite of, it can hold up to my sneering.
God, I shouldn’t be here. Ishouldhave been just stepping off a flight from my honeymoon, glowing after days spent in a Maldives over-water bungalow and getting my back blown outby the love of my life, but that plan went to shit when he left me at the altar. The man literallyran awaywhen it came time to say his vows while I stood there like a mannequin, watching him burst out of the church like a bat out of hell.
Instead, I’m here: on a party bus in Las Vegas, surrounded by forty-odd people I barely know and wishing I could throw myself out the doors and into the street—wishing I’d never brightly agreed when my favorite cousin convinced me to come along to get my mind off my runaway fiancé.
Yeah, I was definitely drunk when I agreed to this. For the first few days after my failed wedding, wine was my best friend. I haven’t been much of a drinker lately, so those bold pinot noirs and piss-adjacent chardonnays went straight to my head.
Who knows what else I agreed to during that time. It’s a good thing I don’t handle the day-to-day business at my company, or else I might be staring down the face of financial ruin. Although, shit, I think I do remember emailing my head chef at an ungodly hour to ask if we could put a red wine–flavored macaron on the menu at Stella Margaux’s.
And then there was that little viral video…
“Stella!” a high-pitched voice crows from across the bus, dragging me out of my sulking.
It’s Daphne, another of my cousins, a woman I wish I could physically remove from our family tree. Her blunt chin-length bob barely shifts when she reaches forward to grab my hand, her bloodred nails perfectly done. She looks like a Black Stepford Wife whose hobbies include witchcraft and eating the souls of children, and if she didn’t annoy the ever-loving shit out of me, I’d adore her vibe.
Unfortunately, she’s a gossip-hungry monster who I’m pretty sure leaked all the gory details of my wedding-gone-wrong to the press. I would have thought a thirty-five-year-oldmother of two and renowned plastic surgeon would have better things to do with her time than talk shit about a jilted bride seven years her junior, but hey, I guess we all have our vices.
“It’s so good you made it!” Daphne gushes, dark eyes boring into me. “How are you feeling? Doing okay after…everything?”
That seems to be everyone’s favorite question these days. I’d love to say that in the two weeks since my fiancé left I’ve been the best ever. It’s what they’d rather hear. But I can’t lie, considering the evidence of my despair is splashed all over the internet.
Someone should have taken my phone from me, or at least changed the passwords to my social media accounts. Maybe that would have stopped me from going live on Instagram and drunkenly raving to the world that love isn’t real, men are trash, and the French can get fucked.
“I’m getting through the days,” I shout over the music. “Super glad to be here, though! So happy for Janelle and Ron!”
She stares at me like she doesn’t believe me for a second, but then she flashes a wide, fake smile. Her teeth are so startlingly white and straight that they have to be veneers. God, they look amazing. “Good for you, being out tonight. Gotta get back on that horse!”
“That’s right! Just call me a cowgirl!” I quip back, and I immediately want to shoot myself.
She drops my hand when the bus shudders to a stop and excited shrieks go up around us. At the front, Janelle taps on a microphone, trying to get everyone’s attention. The sound makes me wince, and I’m tempted to cover my ears, but I don’t want to look like that much of a party pooper this early in the night.
“What’s up, wedding squad!” Janelle shouts into the mic. “How we doing tonight?”
There are hoots and hollers, and I have to dodge getting elbowed in the face by the woman sitting next to me, who has already gone a little too hard on the champagne. In comparison, I’m still nursing my first glass, despite wanting to grab the nearest bottle and chug it.
“Well, now that I know y’all are enjoying yourselves,” Janelle continues, “I thought we’d go over the itinerary for the night.”
The timeline of events is gambling, an eight-course dinner, a strip club where we ladies have the opportunity to get lap dance lessons from the professionals, and then dancing the night away. Normally, I’d be on board for all of those things. I’ll hustle anyone at a poker table, I love good food, and the idea of learning how to give a proper lap dance sounds like a hell of a time. But I can’t work up the necessary enthusiasm for any of it. I haven’t been able to for ages. And it fuckingsucks.
I miss feeling like myself. I miss being joyful instead of bitter. I miss being the life of the party and the first person to accept a dare, consequences be damned. I miss who I was before the man I loved and trusted left me high and dry.
I miss beingme—Stella goddamn Baldwin. But who knows when she’ll be back.
Tonight, I’ll take solace in the fact that I don’t seem to be the only one having a shit time. As we disembark from the bus, I fall in line behind a dark-haired man who heaves a weary sigh as we shuffle toward the door, his broad shoulders hunched.
Yeah, bud, I feel you.
I scowl when Daphne bumps my shoulder, stepping in front of me and dragging another woman along with her. I’m tempted to “accidentally” slosh the last of my champagne on them, but considering we’re all wearing white at Janelle’s behest, it wouldonly make the fabric see-through and lead to me being in trouble. Tragic.
I won’t deny that I look good in tonight’s dress—a short, silky number with a feathered hem. I always look amazing in white by virtue of being a darker-skinned Black woman. But I also can’t deny that the ex-bride inside me is triggered by the sight.
An all too familiar pang of hurt shoots through my chest. I try to drown it by finishing off my champagne, praying Janelle and Ron have paid for open bars in all the places we’re hitting. I need to get shit-faced to make it through this. As long as someone stops me from pulling out my phone and recording another rant, I should be fine.
I draw in a steeling breath as we step off the bus, grateful my ankle doesn’t roll in my insensible strappy stilettos with little glitter stars on them. They make my legs look a mile long, but they were made for sitting more than walking. Or for throwing over the shoulders of a very attractive man. Not that I’ve done that recently or have any plans to. Who knew getting my heart broken would throw my libido into the gutter?
