Chapter Five #3
Renee chews her lip and clicks the cap of the marker on and off again. Majority rules, and with a defeated sigh, she begrudgingly crosses out Scottsdale and draws a star next to the final remaining destination: Palm Springs.
Chrissy’s high-pitched squeal sets off the dog upstairs. She throws her arms in the air, the pits of her elbows batting against her ears as she sways in time to the barking. “The springs, baby! Get pumped!”
I wouldn’t call myself pumped but a bit smugly satisfied.
If I don’t get my way, neither does Renee, who frowns at the board like she’s checking her work—or rather, how much work she has ahead of her.
Chrissy raises a toast to our first major decision as bridesmaids, and I abstain, of course, but only Renee seems to notice.
She eyes me as she sips, studying me through her wineglass.
A pang of something hot runs through my veins; I turn away.
The rest of the evening is a series of more minor bachelorette-related decisions, such as Themes: Yay or nay?
And Are we doing the thing where all the bridesmaids wear black?
Chrissy and Renee speak a common language of bachelorette party traditions, and I try to keep up with what I’m voting against. We agree on no themes, no workout classes or major feats of physical exertion, and—much to Chrissy’s chagrin—no penis-themed paraphernalia.
By the end of the night, the whiteboard is a mess of ideas, and Renee snaps reference photos on our way out the door.
“How are you guys getting home?” Chrissy asks as we’re slipping on our shoes.
“Red Line,” Renee and I say in unison, and my worried glance collides with hers.
“Right, you guys are, like, practically neighbors!” Chrissy says, and my body registers the state of emergency before she even finishes the thought. “Y’know what? Why don’t you just split an Uber? My treat. I charge rides to my work card, like, all the time.”
Renee smiles weakly. “You really don’t—”
“Already booked it.” Chrissy flips her phone to show us her screen. It’s as bright as her smile, glowing with an estimated pickup time of…now. She motions us both in for a group hug, and we reluctantly allow it.
“Thanks,” I grumble. Renee can’t even manage that much, but Chrissy beams like a pageant queen.
“You know I’ve gotta look out for my fellow bridesmaids.”
Outside, a black sedan is already waiting, and when Renee climbs into the back seat, she doesn’t scooch over, forcing me to go around.
Clearly we have similar feelings about our surprise carpool.
The car smells way too strongly of air freshener, and with no music playing, I tune in to the layers of traffic and whatever melodies leak from the open windows of passing cars.
This, I hope, is how we will spend this entire drive: in silence, each of us staring out the window like two kids stuck in time-out.
Renee, it turns out, has other ideas. After a minute or two, she huffs, “I hope you’re happy.”
I dig my nails into my palms. “Why would I be happy, Renee?”
“Because you’ve made my life infinitely harder,” she snaps.
This does, in fact, make me a little happy, but I don’t admit that.
“This bachelorette party could’ve been simple and affordable,” she goes on. “But no. You had to go and veto Scottsdale.”
“And you vetoed Galena,” I fire back, “which would have been the simplest and most affordable option. You’re the one who said Gin would want something new.”
“Forgive me for not wanting any of us to relive your college days,” she says icily.
“And forgive me for thinking that Gin deserves better than you recycling your old work and passing it off as new.”
“I have one month!” Renee wags a finger at me before putting up three more. “Four weeks! Do you know how difficult this is going to be? Can I take a wild guess and say you’ve never planned a bachelorette party?”
I slouch back, wishing I could slip between the seats. “I’ve never even been to a bachelorette party,” I admit.
“Aha! Of course you haven’t. If you had, you would know that I’m right.”
“And you’re always right, aren’t you? Just obsessed with being right.”
“I’m not obsessed with it,” Renee hisses. “I just. Am. Right.”
Our driver switches on the radio and instantly turns up the volume, drowning us out with an early-aughts throwback, and not-so-subtly reminding us we’re not alone.
I’ll send Chrissy money to tip this guy extra well and make up for tanking her Uber rating, but per the ETA glowing on the driver’s phone screen, I have ten minutes before Renee Roberts is no longer my literal captive audience.
And I made a promise to Gin. I need to try.
So I sigh, crack my neck, and turn as much as my seat belt will allow, determined to look Renee square in the eye.
“Look. I’m sorry if I pissed you off tonight,” I start. “You pissed me off too. We’re probably going to piss each other off a lot in the next few months, but even if you hate my guts—”
“I don’t hate your guts,” Renee interrupts. “I don’t hate anyone’s guts.”
“Fine. I’m just trying to say—you’re completely valid in disliking me.”
I wait for her to correct me again, but she doesn’t. Instead, Renee shifts her weight and smooths her hands down her skirt without comment.
“I know I wasn’t the best person when Gin and I were together,” I go on. “But that was five years ago, Renee. A lot has happened since then. You probably weren’t the best version of yourself in your early twenties either.”
“In my early twenties, I was enrolled in one of the top MBA programs in the nation.”
My laugh cracks through the car like a lightning strike. “Well, pardon me for forgetting I’m in the presence of the patron saint of having her shit together.”
“I’m not a saint, Alice.” Renee says my name like a swear. “I’m just not a mess. There’s a difference.”
I bark out a single disbelieving laugh. “Well!” I toss my hands. “There you have it! Gin asked me to try”—I make air quotes—“to get along with you, but if you’re not playing along, then that’s it. I have officially tried.”
It’s hard to get much of a read on Renee; the lights of the city cast oddly shaped shadows across her face, and just when I’m sure we’ve settled back into our mutual time-out silence, she blurts a question into the dark.
“Do you not drink anymore?”
Surprise zips up my spine—once, then again when Renee’s eyes land on mine. They’re the tiniest bit warmer and more curious than her standard icy stare. A muscle somewhere deep in my core unflexes.
“I’m sober,” I finally say.
“Since when?”
“Since Dad’s health took a turn. About three years.”
“Right,” Renee says softly, then after a short skin-crawling silence, “I’m sorry, by the way. About your dad. That must be tough.”
Tough is exactly the word. Tough like a gristly piece of meat that you can’t chew through, no matter how hard you try.
Tough like a playground bully who’s waiting for you in the same spot, rain or shine.
For nearly a year, the grief has been consistent and unbreakable, something I can only wear through little by little but never all the way. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s been tough.”
“Congrats on getting sober, though.” Renee’s tone is more even and earnest than it’s ever been—at least when directed at me.
Something stutters inside me at the sudden warmth, but Renee ices right back over.
She straightens, lips pressed into a firm line, before muttering, “I never would’ve guessed Blackout Alice had it in her. ”
I scoff through my nose. “Yeah, well. I never would’ve guessed I’d be going to Palm Springs with Renee Roberts.”
She rolls her eyes, but they don’t meet mine again. Instead, Renee is back to gazing out the window, watching the lights blur into streaks. Without looking at me, she adds, “Anything for Gin.”
“Anything and everything for Gin,” I agree, and I swear I see the corners of Renee’s lips twitch—not with a snarl but not quite a smile.
Hey Dad,
Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written to you. It’s been kind of a weird night, and I don’t know that I really have anything good to say, but I just really miss you.
Planning Gin’s bachelorette party has me thinking a lot about planning your funeral.
They’re not so different: just two parties planned in someone’s honor, but without much of their input.
When Mom and I had to pick out flowers and what type of wood your casket should be, I wished you were there to weigh in.
We should’ve asked you what you wanted while you were still around.
What I’m saying is I’m sorry if your funeral wasn’t exactly what you would have wanted.
I’m not sure if you got to watch from wherever you are, but we had you buried in your Luccheses.
I knew you would approve. I hope you approve of The Handful’s new singer, too.
I think I’m less upset about the band and more upset by the thought of some new guy using your room at the Outpost. I wish we could keep that house exactly how you left it, like a museum of you and The Handful with all your guitars and summer clothes.
Sometimes I want everything to stop because you’re gone. No one can take your place, Dad.
Love,
Your Dallas Alice