Page 86 of Bitter Rival

It feels like a test, and I’m competitive enough that I want to get it right, so I don’t respond immediately, even though it should be obvious. “The woman sitting on the striped chair holding a tuba.”

“Yes!” She sounds happy and proud, like a teacher awarding her pupil a gold star. “Take the photo before we lose it.”

I press the button, and as soon as the shutter clicks, I turn the camera on her. She’s gazing into the distance so at first, she doesn’t notice

I snap three photos in quick succession before she turns to look at me.

“Stop!” She laughs and covers her face. I snap two more photos before she snatches the camera out of my hand and turns it on me.

I hate having my photo taken, but she’s been sneaking candid shots of me throughout the day. “Enough photos,” I say gruffly.

“I’m going to enlarge them and plaster them all over my walls in Brooklyn to use as a dart board. You’ll be back in San Francisco going, ‘Fuck, why do I have this piercing pain in my eyeball?’” She slaps her hand over her eye and staggers back in a dramatic display.

Daisy would have made a great actor. She’s prone to theatrics.

I snort. “I’ve seen your aim. I doubt you’ll even hit the target.”

“You underestimate my tenacity. Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” she says cheerfully.

Then she’s off. Weaving through the crowd. Mingling with artists. Within ten minutes, she’s made two new friends and knows their life stories.

Then she’s jogging across a field to the “wedding chapel,” where a woman in yards of tulle is marrying a man in a pinstripe suit and a top hat for five bucks.

A whole line of expectant brides and grooms are waiting for their turn to exchange vows under the wire mesh arbor of vines and leaves. Why? What’s the appeal? None that I can see.

“Should I offer my condolences?”

“Stop.” Daisy laughs and smacks my arm. “It’s romantic. Look how excited they are. They look happy.”

“They’re probably drunk,” I retort.

She laughs again. “You are the absolute worst.” She links her arm through mine and waggles her brows. “We should make it official. You could be my fake husband. We should send out save-the-date cards. It would be rude not to.”

Hilarious. “How big is this fake wedding?”

“Small. Tasteful,” Daisy says, completely serious as we stroll across the field. “Two hundred of our closest friends. I’m just waiting for Elvis to get back to me.”

“Young Elvis or Vegas Elvis?” I ask, playing along for reasons that are not entirely clear.

“Elvis in the iconic white jumpsuit with rhinestones. Obviously. And it has to be the real Elvis,” Daisy says. “I refuse to settle for anything less.”

“Sounds like you’ll be waiting for a while. How about you tuck that little fantasy away and I buy you some real barbecue instead?”

“My kind of man.” She saunters ahead, leading the charge. “You know the way to my heart.”

After moaning her way through pulled pork sandwiches followed by tamales from a food truck, she moves on to dessert—a bag of donuts dusted in sugar and cinnamon and freshly squeezed lemonade to fill her bottomless pit.

“Let’s have donuts, but make them bite-sized,” she jokes, popping a mini donut into her mouth and licking the sugar off her fingers.

Daisy is laughing, happy, and carefree, completely in her element.

Blonde hair flowing down her back. Hair woven into braids around the crown of her head. Sun-kissed skin dipped in gold. Bright eyes fringed by thick, sooty lashes.

I meant what I said in the car. She is beautiful. Stunning, even. But it goes beyond the superficial.

Daisy is one of those rare creatures who seems to glow from the inside.

She’s not bitter or jaded, and despite everything she’s gone through, she can still see the magic and wonder in the world.

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