Love Buzz


 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 For all the girls
 who have held out for inconvenient love
 
 
 Epigraph
 Life is not merely a series of meaningless accidents or coincidences, but rather, it’s a tapestry of events that culminate in an exquisite, sublime plan.
 —Jeremy Piven as Dean Kansky, Serendipity
 
 
 Contents
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Epigraph
 Part One: In a Room of Many
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Part Two: Of Eight Billion
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
 Chapter 26
 Chapter 27
 Chapter 28
 Chapter 29
 Chapter 30
 Chapter 31
 Chapter 32
 Chapter 33
 Chapter 34
 Chapter 35
 Chapter 36
 Chapter 37
 Chapter 38
 Chapter 39
 Chapter 40
 Epilogue
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 Part One
 In a Room of Many
 
 
 1.
 MANDATORY ATTENDANCE AT A BACHELORETTE PARTY IN NEW ORLEANS during Mardi Gras is a special kind of torture. The bride is my cousin Coral, and though I’m happy for her (genuinely, so happy), I can’t say I’m overjoyed about being a bridesmaid.
 For one, Coral’s new best friend and maid of honor, Melody, an attorney, seems to think we all possess the same blasé attitude she does when it comes to spending money. The truth is, despite saving almost fifty percent of my paycheck each month, I don’t believe spending four hundred dollars on a chartreuse bridesmaid dress is at all reasonable.
 Chartreuse. The color of tennis balls and unhealthy mucus.
 But I can’t say that.
 Because I don’t want to ruin Coral’s big day—especially when there already lies so much unsaid between us. And I certainly don’t want the judgy lawyer look from Melody, the person who has replaced me as best friend. So I bought the four-hundred-dollar dress. And the one-hundred-fifty-dollar shoes. But I drew the line at the two-hundred-dollar hair and makeup package for the wedding day, thus justifying Melody’s disdain of me.
 What I really want to say is that had Coral let me pick the bridesmaids’ dresses, I would have opted for a more universally flattering shape of some kind, instead of the mermaid monstrosity that draws unwanted attention to my hips. But because Coral and I are not as close as we once were and my Auntie Lakshmi likely forced her to include me in the wedding party—
 I can’t say that either.
 Instead, I’m drinking and laughing and playing games like Dick Pic Bingo (a Melody contribution to the “fun”) while pretending this trip isn’t thieving from my hard-earned savings.
 I make a mental note to delete all the penis pics from my phone before I land back home tomorrow.
 But at least it’s the last night.
 I’ve navigated my way through four days and nights of weather extremes—freezing in the morning, sweltering by mid-afternoon. I’ve endured the stench of mold and spilled liquor that makes me wonder if I’ll still detect this city on me long after I’ve left. And there’s been more alcohol consumption than I’ve had over the last year. I’ve already researched effective detox strategies for when I get home.
 There has been some good though. I’ve had the opportunity to take in the French Quarter during Mardi Gras, and though the constant crowds have spotlighted how much I value personal space, this place is alive with history, excitement, and culture. I’m particularly drawn to the mysticism and folklore, stopping to admire each voodoo shop we’ve passed. In these sparse moments, the decaying smell of the city floats around me like a perfectly placed prop. This part has me enamored. This and the beignets.
 But I’m not here on a lazy vacation where I can wander the streets and peruse the shops for hours. I can’t consume slices of king cake while leisurely sipping café au lait. And I can’t stand on the street corner to watch the parade floats drift by, admiring their detail and scale against the backdrop of riotous live horns. No, I’m at a bachelorette party, where my experiences are confined to the inside of every bar on Bourbon Street and the scores of girls (and guys) gone wild on the streets outside them.
 On this last night of bachelorette debauchery, Melody has unilaterally proclaimed we must go out with a bang. We’ve all been ordered to don the most revealing outfits we’ve packed (mine—a pair of black leggings and a plain blush pink crop top—was not up to snuff per Melody’s hypercritical glare), and we are under strict orders to collect as many beads as physically possible to bestow upon Coral at the end of the night. So far, I’m losing, with one measly purple strand handed to me by a waiter attempting to lure patrons into his bar, so it hardly counts.
 So here we are, at the last bar of the last night per Melody’s itinerary. She’s planned every second of this trip, down to the bathroom breaks. The fact I haven’t shit on command during her slotted times is probably adding to her deep distaste for me. We’re at some bar with Bourbon in the name, just like the last three we’ve patroned.
 A few more hours and this torture will be over. And if I can make it through this night without Coral puking on me—which has already happened twice on this trip—or me erupting on Melody, I’ll consider it a win.
 The five other girls are all dancing atop the bar. Melody is wearing hot-pink mesh underwear under her black leather mini skirt, and there are currently four men positioned at the bar, all staring up said skirt. I thought lawyers were supposed to be conservative. Not Melody.
 Coral is wearing a bra top and holey, wide-leg jeans and is currently wobbling from her perch on the