Chapter Six
Six
The start of Chicago summer feels like the answer to a collective five-month prayer. Not that I pray, but if I did, a sunny forecast for Memorial Day weekend would be all the proof I needed that someone, somewhere, was looking out for me.
The studio is still open on holidays, but Aidan gave me the day off in exchange for picking up a shift this Friday night.
For the first time in ages, I wake up without an alarm, blinking into the sun that falls in warm slats across my bedspread.
I toss back my covers and muscle open a window, letting fresh air pour in, as thick and sweet as the yolk of a seven-minute egg.
Warmth shimmers through me. It’s finally summer.
I hurry through a truncated version of my morning routine, slipping on my favorite leather shorts and a plain white tank top.
I don’t bother looking in the mirror to futz with my hair; I’m too eager to get out in the sun and soak up the first truly nice day we’ve had since September.
Since Dad died, I think, then type Wish you were here into my running note of texts I’ll never get to send.
Just then, an actual text appears from Gin, and the group chat pops off.
Gin’s I Do Crew
Gin Bennett
Hey guys! Guess who booked a wedding dress shopping appointment!?! Mark your calendars: Saturday June 14th at Kilpatrick’s Bridal Outlet. Appointment is at 9 A.M. and I figure we can do brunch after!
Chrissy Amato
YAAAAAAAAAY!! OMG. It’s HAPPENING!!! FYI, that’s the day before Father’s Day, so I’ll have to head straight to my parents’ place after brunch. Hope that’s okay!!!!!
Renee Roberts
Wouldn’t miss it, Gin! Similar sentiments about Father’s Day, but that morning, I’m all yours! Maybe we can get a carpool going, Chrissy? I’ll need a ride.
Gin Bennett
Omg, leave it to the girl who’s no-contact with her parents to forget about Father’s Day. But YAY! So glad you guys can come! I can’t pick out a dress without you!
Alice Pierce
That Saturday works for me.
Alice Pierce
Yay!
I blow out a breath, then turn my phone off and ditch it on the kitchen counter.
I need a break from the constant correspondence, and lately, if I’m not texting the group chat, I’m barely resisting the urge to look up what Cold Sweat has been up to.
What festivals have they played? What acts have they collaborated with?
But the biggest question, the one I can’t stop asking, would yield no search results: What would I say if I saw Solas again?
I leave it all behind for this summer’s inaugural iced coffee run.
Outside, the weather has transformed an ordinary day into something of a street festival.
The sidewalks bustle with people, some debuting their shorts for the season, while others shed their top layers and knot them around their waists.
Everyone I pass looks a little familiar, like I’ve seen them in a dream or in line at the grocery store, but I don’t really know any of them.
That’s the beauty of living in a city so big that it could swallow the rest of the state in one gulp: I’m one in a metropolis of millions.
I can be anyone or no one, Ricky Pierce’s daughter or just another sleepy-eyed sucker walking into the coffee shop.
Or at least that’s what I used to think, but one step into Grounds Crew and my heart skids to a stop.
Near the door, a woman sits alone at a table, nose scrunched at her laptop as she toys with a strand of white-blond hair that’s fallen loose from her claw clip. Renee Roberts, two feet away from me.
My immediate instinct—to bolt out the door and find a new favorite coffee shop—is thwarted by my own big mouth.
I audibly gasp, drawing the attention of not only Renee but a half dozen other people, all blinking up at me with reasonable concern.
Renee’s head cocks as she plucks out an earbud, and my cheeks burn beneath her heavy-lidded stare.
I try an awkward smile, but she doesn’t match it.
I wish to dissolve into coffee grounds. The next best option is to step into line.
I order my usual large cold brew, plus the last two chocolate croissants in the pastry case. A peace offering of sorts. The barista slips both croissants into one crinkly brown envelope, and I tip twice as much as usual. Good karma, I hope.
By the time I’ve swirled the perfect balance of oat milk and sweetener into my coffee, Renee’s attention is back on her laptop, nose crinkled with focus.
In a plain red square-neck tank and light-washed denim cutoffs, she’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen her, although still in all her usual jewelry—hoop earrings, rings stacked on nearly every finger, and a single gold chain that rests just above her collarbones.
The sun glints off it, and I feel the sparkle in the arches of my feet.
Even dressed like the rest of us, she’s striking. It’s not fair.
“Special delivery.” I rest my elbows on the chair across from hers and give the pastry bag a shake, but Renee’s eyes don’t budge.
She holds up her index finger, one cherry-red nail pointing upward in a silent demand: Wait.
I have half a mind to show her a different finger, but after two sharp slaps of the space bar—clack clack—Renee lifts her gaze to mine, unamused.
“Do you need something?” Her tone borders on offended, like I’ve barged into her office by patronizing a coffee shop.
“Well hello to you, too,” I grumble.
Renee sets her jaw, pushes out a sigh, and tries again. “Hi, Alice.” She says it like it’s work. “Like I asked, do you need something?”
I shake the bag again. “I thought you might need a croissant.”
“No thanks.” Then she’s back to her laptop, probably typing up a very long list of reasons I should leave her alone, which is precisely why I won’t. It’s a little fun, getting on Renee’s nerves.
“Whatcha working on?”
Renee glances up at me, annoyed, then back to her screen. “Bachelorette stuff.”
“Like what?”
She sighs again, then clicks her tongue. “Actually, since you’re here, I could get your information for booking flights, if you have a sec.”
“I have lots of secs,” I rattle off. Shit. No. NO! “Seconds! I mean seconds! I have plenty of seconds! I have time!”
My cheeks are on fire, and a flicker of something combustible dances in Renee’s eyes.
She laughs, a bright, airy ha that pins me in place as I sink into the empty seat.
I’d classify this squarely as laughing at me, not with me, but it’s some consolation to know Renee is capable of laughter.
As she types, her rounded red nails hit every stroke with the even precision of a trained pianist, and I catch myself staring.
The spell only breaks when she spins her laptop and slides it across the table, presenting me with the usual airline forms so I can key in all the customary data: name, birthdate, TSA PreCheck info.
“These might have been better questions for the bachelorette questionnaire,” I point out.
Renee is, as usual, unimpressed.
“That questionnaire is foolproof,” she insists. “I’ve used it eight times.”
“Did you say…eight?”
“Yes, eight.”
“You’ve planned eight bachelorette parties?”
A small smile passes over Renee’s lips, one that says I’m guilty, but it’s barely a misdemeanor. “I’m an extraordinary event planner.”
“Oh, I remember,” I say. “You so generously replanned all of Gin’s birthday parties.”
“I wouldn’t have had to replan them if you planned them well enough in the first place,” she says matter-of-factly.
“What more did you want from me? It’s a karaoke costume party. I wore a costume. I rented a karaoke machine.”
“And you broke the karaoke machine on her twenty-third. If I recall, you drunkenly kicked it over when I tried to sing ‘Seasons of Love.’ ”
“I would have done that sober.”
“Oh sure.” Renee props her chin on her fist, playing therapist. “And when Gin brought you to see me in a show and you snored through my entire solo, would you have done that sober, too?”
A cold burn of shame washes down my throat. “I was kind of counting on you forgetting about that,” I admit. Or at least I was counting on her not bringing it up.
Considering how much of my early twenties is lost beneath a blanket of blackouts, it seems unfair of my brain to preserve all my worst memories.
I can still feel the jostle of my shoulder as Gin shook me awake, the blurred confusion of being sent home at intermission, but it’s the look in Gin’s eyes that I’ve tried and failed to forget.
She was angry. Disappointed. But worst of all, not even a little bit surprised.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pull in a deep breath that morphs seamlessly into a sigh.
“I’m sorry I did that,” I say. And I mean it. “I’m sure I apologized to you back then, too, it bears repeating. I really am sorry.”
When I open my eyes, Renee’s scowl has softened to a skeptical frown. “I’m not sure that you did apologize back then.”
“Well, if I didn’t, then I’m doubly sorry,” I say. “Can I make it up to you? Do you want to sing something now? I promise I’ll stay awake.”
I catch the smallest tug of a smile on Renee’s lips, but it’s gone in an instant.
“Or how’s this? You mentioned needing a ride to Gin’s dress-shopping appointment. I could drive you. And I promise not to talk to you the entire drive. Consider it an extension of this belated apology.”
Renee rubs her lips together, considering. She spins the gold band around her middle finger—once, twice. “All right,” she says on the third spin. She tips her chin once. “You have a deal.”
“Oh.” I blink at her, feeling suddenly off kilter. I didn’t think she’d take me up on that. I clear my throat and sit a little taller. “All right. Great. So I…can pick you up? Or we can meet at my place. Whatever’s most convenient.”
Renee’s eyes narrow as she leans back in her seat, arms folded over her chest. “Trust me, Alice,” she rasps. “Nothing about you is convenient.”
Saturday, June 14
Renee Roberts
Morning. Are you picking me up or should I meet you at your place?
Renee Roberts
I’m walking over. Pick up your phone.
Renee Roberts
I swear to God Alice if you don’t pick up your damn phone
Renee Roberts
I’m about to buzz your gate
Renee Roberts
If you’re still asleep I swear to God
Renee Roberts
This Uber is like $200 Alice are you fucking kidding me right now?
Renee Roberts
I CAN SEE YOUR CAR OUT HERE I KNOW YOU HAVEN’T LEFT
Renee Roberts
I’m getting an Uber.