Chapter Eight
Eight
The itinerary for Gin’s bachelorette trip hits our inboxes first thing Friday morning, exactly one week before our flight to Palm Springs.
FROM: Renee Roberts
TO: Christina Amato, Alice Pierce, Virginia Bennett
SUBJECT: Palm Springs before the rings!
Hey ladies,
T minus 7 days until the big weekend! Well, not THE big weekend, but the biggest weekend before the couple of the century ties the knot!
I’ve attached an agenda and packing list for your convenience, but let me know if any additional questions come to mind!
Please note that our flight leaves at 9:05 AM on Friday, so please set your alarms accordingly.
Can’t wait to celebrate our bride!
XO,
Renee
The message alone makes me grit my teeth, but when I click open the itinerary, it feels like my brain is on fire.
Renee has provided a colorful twelve-page display of complete disregard for every group decision we made.
The bridesmaids agreed on no workout classes or major physical exertion, but Renee has scheduled a six-mile hike.
We voted no on themes, but Renee has assigned three.
Neon pool party. Disco cowgirl. Dress like your favorite martini night.
I shove up from my desk, stomp out of my home studio, and yank my phone off its charger to text Renee, wtf I thought we said no themes???
Immediately, Renee switches on Do Not Disturb, and I seethe until I remember the time—Renee is likely at the office. Probably Chrissy, too, if she even has an office outside the playroom in her apartment. I text Chrissy, Have you read the itinerary yet?
Immediately, she calls.
“Sorry to buzz, but I figured it was faster!!” Chrissy’s voice is even closer to a shout than usual. A gritty, mechanical growl rumbles and revs in the background. “SORRY IF IT’S LOUD!”
I wince away from the phone and thumb down the volume. “It’s, uh. No problem. Where are you?”
“AT THE RACETRACK!”
“Like…for cars?”
“NO, SILLY!” Chrissy laughs. “FOR WORK!”
A million questions dogpile in my mind, but for the first time, Chrissy’s job isn’t the most confusing thing demanding discussion. She must step away from the racetrack; the engine noise dies down enough to hold a conversation.
“Anyway, the itinerary email,” I prompt.
“So cute, right? The Gin and Juice T-shirts? Perf.”
“Right. But did you see the themes?”
A pause, then skeptically, Chrissy says, “I thought we weren’t doing themes.”
“Exactly. Or anything too physically strenuous, but Renee’s got us down for a six-mile hike.”
There’s a muffled shuffling on the other end of the line, followed by some distant engine revving and the tip-tap of Chrissy’s nails on her screen.
When she’s back on the line, Chrissy says, “Huh. Weird.” But that’s it.
No call to action or suggestion of accountability.
Just Huh. Weird. My insides start to itch with a helpless rage I can’t set free. Am I crazy? This is crazy.
“So what do you think we should do?” I press, and the line is silent far longer than I’d like. I’ve begun to pace the width of my bedroom when Chrissy clears her throat. Or maybe it’s a car engine. Either way, the next part comes through loud and clear.
“I guess we should pack accordingly!” Chrissy says, and I stifle a groan.
If I can’t convince Chrissy that we should unionize, I’m out of options.
Not unless I want to throw a tantrum, but I refuse to resort to the tactics of Classic Alice.
When we end the call, I toss my phone onto the bed and flop down beside it in defeat.
There’s only one thing left to do: Shop for costumes.
The Palm Springs Airport looks less like an airport and more like the world’s cutest outdoor mall, but it feels like it’s built inside Satan’s sauna.
After an ultra-early morning and a four-hour flight spent alternating sleep with Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, I’m groggy at best, squinting into the too-bright sunshine as we deplane onto a tarmac that ripples with heat.
It’s an otherworldly type of heat, like we’ve touched down on a different planet a few thousand miles closer to the sun.
I spot the group of neon-pink Gin and Juice shirts waiting for me in the shade, fanning themselves with their itineraries.
Renee provided us all with physical copies, just in case we needed some not-so-light reading for the flight.
With everyone present and accounted for, an insultingly refreshed Renee leads us to the baggage claim with the authority of someone who has been here before, which she hasn’t.
Her cherry-red hard-shell is the first of our luggage to spit out onto the conveyor belt, followed by the same purple suitcase Gin has stayed loyal to since our Galena spring break days.
Chrissy being Chrissy somehow sweet-talked the flight attendants into letting her carry on her oversize leather weekender bag, so I’m the last one standing at the carousel, watching bag after black tagless bag pass me by.
“Here comes the beast!” Gin shouts from behind me, and I turn, following her outstretched finger to the oversize luggage area, where my giant blue suitcase awaits.
How the rest of them packed for every themed event in smaller-sized bags is beyond me.
Big Blue here was an emergency purchase from Village Thrift, along with every neon swimsuit I could find and any article of clothing that might qualify as “disco cowgirl.” Needless to say, I’ve already complained extensively in my Notes app to Dad.
I roll Big Blue back toward the group, feeling envious of everyone who chose to wear shorts. Moisture pools behind my knees and drips down my calves, soaking through my sweatpants. Thank God today is a pool day.
Renee leads us to the rideshare pickup zone, where she calls us a car.
The plan is for her to put everything on her credit card this weekend, and we’ll divvy up the costs after.
According to Renee, this is standard practice for bachelorette parties.
According to me, Renee is hogging all the credit card points.
“Ricardo will be here in four minutes,” she says, then reads the license plate number aloud. “It’s an SUV.”
“So that should fit Alice’s bag.” Gin snickers. “Where are the rest of us going to sit?”
I sigh internally, then opt to lean in.
“Actually, I was planning on riding this baby all the way to the hotel.” I smack my suitcase like it’s a horse, throwing in a “Giddyup!” and earning a bright, bubbly laugh from the bride. This is fun, I think. We’re having fun. It’s hot as hell, but so far, I’m doing okay.
“God, you guys are the best,” Gin says. “And this.” She sweeps her hands all around. “This is the best. It’s gorgeous here. Thank you so much for planning this, Renee.”
“Anything for you,” Renee says, and it feels like my rib cage has been laced up and pulled tight.
Anything for Gin. It’s the truth. All of us would bend over backward for this woman, and she would do the same for us.
She has done the same for us, for me, when I least deserved it.
If I can remember why I’m doing this—why I’m sweating in the desert wearing eye-bleeding neon pink, why I bought not only a new suitcase but an entire new wardrobe for this trip—if I can remember it’s all for Gin, I can do it.
There’s so much I would never do for myself, but for her, I’d do it all twice.
Our SUV arrives, and once we’ve piled in both our luggage and ourselves, the driver changes the music to suit his audience.
A greeting from Snoop Dogg kicks off Katy Perry’s “California Gurls,” and Chrissy swings her feet like a giddy toddler.
“It’s staaaarting!” she sings, just like she did at the airport this morning and again when the plane took off.
I wonder when it will stop starting and start happening. Hopefully she’ll alert us.
We get through “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” and most of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” before arriving at a hotel that looks like a collaboration between the makers of Barbie and Candy Land.
The automatic doors part, and we’re welcomed with a blast of air-conditioning into a lobby entirely sectioned out by color.
All the neon-pink furniture is separated from the neon-yellow furniture and so on, and every square inch is positioned for a photo op.
Renee files into line to check in, standing behind what looks to be another bachelorette party.
The group is already dressed for the pool in little black bikinis and sheer black sarongs—all but one, of course, whose all-white getup includes a bedazzled captain’s-style hat that labels her as the bride.
“I’m sooo glad we decided not to do the whole bridesmaids-wear-black thing,” Chrissy whispers, and Gin nods in slow motion, eyes wide.
“It feels funeral coded,” I add, and Gin traps a phlegmy laugh behind her lips.
“I usually think it’s classy,” Chrissy says, “but can you imagine wearing black in this heat? And it looks so stupid here of all places.” She spreads her fingers and draws two circles in the air with her hands, encapsulating the Skittles bag we’ve been dropped into.
“I like our pink shirts.” Gin pinches her own a few inches off her body to inspect the design: It’s retro with loopy letters printed in a slightly darker shade of pink than the shirt itself. “They’re cute but not like…Bride Tribe or Team Bride or whatever.”
“I can’t believe you left your bedazzled bride captain’s hat at home, though,” I mumble, and Gin laughs again, only this time, it doesn’t stay behind closed lips, but ricochets off the color-coded walls. A man behind the front desk shoots her a scowl reminiscent of a cartoon villain.
“Ew, grumpy gills over here at the counter,” Chrissy says with an eye roll. “How are you going to work here and be in a bad mood?”