Chapter Eleven
Eleven
For the second morning in a row, my alarm propels me into panic.
Where am I? Whose bed am I in? Did the tour van leave without me?
I draw in a long, stabilizing breath. I’m in Palm Springs. I’m safe. I’m fine.
I am also, once again, entangled in Renee Roberts.
It’s not just absurd; it feels nearly impossible.
I slept on top of the covers as a precaution against this, and still, we’re in the same tangled mess as yesterday: Renee’s bare thigh rests on top of mine, one arm slung over my stomach in a half hug.
Her warm exhales flutter against my neck, sending a prickle of want across all my nerve endings.
I feel her breath hitch as she starts to stir, wincing at the sound of my alarm, then jolting awake when she realizes who she’s snuggled up with.
We both startle back to our respective sides of the bed, and Renee’s eyes flash around the room, rightfully confused. We don’t discuss it, though; when I shut off my alarm, I’m greeted by a text from Gin that pulls all my focus.
Gin’s I Do Crew
Gin Bennett
Good morning!! Hope everyone slept well! I had the craziest dream where my hair caught on fire at a bar…that qualifies as a nightmare, right? Thank you guys for all of your help last night. I literally have the best friends on the planet.
SO. That said. I’m so, so sorry to do this, but Chrissy (my literal hero) has a client who owns a chain of hair salons, and they have a location in Palm Springs!
Long story short, she pulled some strings and they’re fitting me in to fix my hair.
Thank GOD. Only problem is they can only take me right when they open at 10, which means we’ll probably have to skip drag brunch.
I’m so sorry again, but I hope you guys understand.
I know I’ll feel so much better once it’s fixed, and that way I won’t be a nightmare the whole flight home!
Text me when you wake up just so I know you saw this. Love you!!!
Upon reading the text, Renee lets out a whimpering groan. I look up just as she threads her fingers into her messy blond hair and stares at her phone like she’s trying to explode it with her mind.
“Classic Chrissy,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “She always knows the right people.”
“Guess so.”
“Have you heard the story about her dating a guy for an entire summer just for free VIP tickets to Lollapalooza?”
Renee throws back the duvet and sulks off to the bathroom, somehow not hooked by the Lollapalooza story.
I listen for the dull hiss of the shower as it flips on, then the hum of the plumbing as I craft a text to Gin that’s equally silly and supportive.
So long as we’re managing schedule changes, I check on our flight home—it’s on time, same gate, same everything.
At least some things are going according to plan.
I’m still in bed when Renee emerges, showered and ready, wet hair dappling the shoulders of her red T-shirt dress. I kick off the covers and jump to my feet.
“I can be ready to leave in about ten?”
She flinches. “Leave for where?”
“For drag brunch.” I make a beeline for Big Blue, digging through my innumerable options. “No dress code for this, right?”
Silence. When I turn to Renee, she’s fiddling with her rings, brow creased.
“I don’t think it’s right to go without Gin and Chrissy,” she says.
“What else are we supposed to do? Sit around?”
Renee lifts a shoulder. “We could pack.”
“According to the itinerary, we have a late checkout. And were you not just complaining that we came all this way only to sit by the pool?”
Renee’s mouth closes and opens, a Venus flytrap hoping to catch a valid argument, but there isn’t one. I’m dressed and ready before Renee has decided between a strappy pair of wedges and sensible white sneakers.
“Go with the wedges,” I advise. “It’s a drag show.”
She frowns toward my feet. “You’re wearing sneakers.”
“Well, yeah. Because look at me. And look at you.”
“What about me?”
A tiny fire blazes down the backs of my ears as I fumble for an answer that’s not completely humiliating. “You’re…well, you’re you,” I manage. “I mean, look at you. That’s not what normal people look like.”
Renee’s mouth twists into a smile, but her brow stays furrowed, not quite sure what to make of that…or me. “Thanks,” she says cautiously. “I think.”
We arrive at the restaurant at ten on the dot, as does every other bachelorette party in town.
I recognize the wig-wearing group from Lagoon 42—mostly by the singular bridesmaid who remains committed to the bright-blue bob—and the women in the matching bandage dresses are back with a brand-new coordinated group look: pajamas.
Based on their demeanor, I’d guess it was less of a choice and more of a desperate hungover decision.
When a queen in a ’50s-diner-girl dress escorts us to our seats, Renee still seems a half-step off, nervously checking her phone for updates from the bride.
But when the lights dim and a queen waddles out in a semirealistic palm tree costume, I watch the sparkle ignite behind Renee’s eyes.
Every performance further confirms we made the right call by not missing this.
A black queen with a knee-length wig dances on tables, stilettos stepping between cocktails and plates of scrambled eggs.
A queen by the name of Maybe Gaga performs “Born This Way” with original choreography, and Bloody Mary and Mimi Mosa show down in a comedy battle for America’s Next Top Cocktail, snatching up dollar bills from the crowd to determine a winner.
My favorite performer by far, though, remains the palm tree.
She stands statue still in the center of the restaurant until the grand finale, a Mariah Carey group number that ends with the palm tree setting off a glitter bomb.
“You were right,” Renee admits when the show ends. She brushes glitter into a neat pile in the lap of her dress. “That was excellent. I’m glad we came to that.”
I gasp through my nose. “Say that again. The part about me being right.”
She considers me for a moment, then scoops up the glitter from her lap and drizzles it into my hair. It falls into my eyelashes, and I pin her with a joyless stare.
“I hate you,” I say flatly.
Renee grins. “I don’t think you do, actually.”
The restaurant has to reset for the next sold-out brunch in an hour, and since we haven’t heard from Gin or Chrissy, Renee and I wander toward a diner down the street. We leave a trail of glitter on the sidewalk behind us; I’ll be washing tiny sparkly flecks out of my hair for at least a week.
“We’re like gay Hansel and Gretel,” I joke, motioning to the sparkles breadcrumbed behind us, which sparks a heated discussion about the assumed sexual orientation of fairy-tale characters.
Renee and I butt heads on the Big Bad Wolf and Cinderella’s stepsisters, all of whom I insist are gay, but Renee wholeheartedly disagrees.
“What about Jack?” I throw out. “You have to agree that Jack is gay.”
“Jack?”
“Of beanstalk fame.”
Renee scrunches her nose, considering. “A straight man wouldn’t trade a cow for magic beans, would he?”
“Or risk his life for a harp,” I add.
“But the giants are straight,” she decides. “I’m fairly sure they’re married, and giants in general have a conservative energy to them.”
I kick a pebble across the sidewalk, and it bounces off the platform of Renee’s wedges. “You’re a lot goofier than I thought you could be.”
“I’m not being goofy,” she deadpans. “I’m having an intellectual conversation about the assumed sexuality of storybook characters.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “This is very serious business.”
We carry this very serious, very sophisticated conversation into the diner with us.
Rapunzel is straight. Goldilocks is straight.
Little Miss Muffet is a certified bisexual.
After our waitress comes around to top off our coffees for a second time, I’m caffeinated and courageous enough to ask, “What about you?”
“Me?” Confusion darts through Renee’s eyes, but she blinks it away. “Oh. Me.”
“You don’t have to answer,” I rush to say. “I was just wondering since me and Gin are…but then Chrissy is…”
“The straightest person alive,” Renee supplies.
Her laugh bounces off mine, a crackling whir against my one loud ha. The sound is perfectly percussive and surprisingly well balanced. After another sip of coffee, Renee shrugs.
“I’m bi,” she says. “I thought you already knew.”
“Why would I know that?”
“My resemblance to Little Miss Muffet.”
A small laugh catches in my throat. “I guess I could’ve assumed,” I admit. “Can’t say I know any actor living in Chicago who’s completely straight.”
At this, the playful energy between us simmers away. Renee’s eyes sweep the table, voice shrinking down to almost nothing when she says, “Well, I’m not an actor anymore.”
“What?”
I lean in, certain I misheard. When her gaze lifts to mine, she looks a little less like herself.
“I’m not an actor anymore,” she repeats.
“I mean, I know you manage events at the Blomquist, but on the side…”
Renee shakes her head. “Not anymore.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t have the time. Between auditions and self-tapes and the late-night rehearsals…it was too much.”
My chest tightens around a bundle of memories from my Cold Sweat days, the relentless gigging, how fried I was by the constant go go go. “I think I get that. From being in a band. It’s a lot of hustle.”
“Exactly. And I can’t be at rehearsals until eleven at night, get home after midnight, and be up for work the next day.
It’s not sustainable.” Renee’s delivery is a bit rehearsed; it’s clear she’s had this conversation many times before, possibly with herself in the mirror, but no amount of reasoning can erase the hint of regret that clings to her voice.
So I have to ask. “Don’t you miss being up onstage?”