Chapter Eleven #2
“Don’t you miss being up onstage?” Renee parries.
She folds her arms and leans back against the vinyl booth cushions.
“There comes a point when you have to ask yourself: Am I willing to let this kill me? Am I willing to push and struggle and starve if that’s what it takes to do what I love to do?
Or do I want to live a comfortable, normal life with a normal job that still gets me through the front door of a theater every single day?
” Something quick and painful darts through her eyes, and she squeezes them shut.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I don’t mean to assume, but I’m guessing that’s what you did, too. ”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I admit.
Renee opens her eyes again, arching a brow. “You quit performing in favor of something more practical, right?”
“I quit performing because I needed help,” I correct her.
“Cold Sweat used to cancel a show a month because I was too drunk to play. Then Dad’s esophagus ruptured, and I blacked out for, like, a week straight.
We had to cancel the rest of that tour, and then Dad got his diagnosis and…
I didn’t want to end up like that. I couldn’t get sober on the road.
And I had to get sober, or I’d end up like my dad. ”
I dip my gaze into my coffee, feeling a little like I’ve split open a vein. And in front of Renee, of all people. When I drag my eyes back up to hers, there’s not a drop of judgment waiting there. Just compassion. Curiosity. I keep going.
“I needed to try something new, meet new people. My only network in Chicago was through The Handful or Cold Sweat, which was tough. I didn’t want to be Ricky Pierce Jr., but I had a pretty rough reputation from my Cold Sweat days.
I knew a little about recording and audio engineering just from being around the Outpost since I was a kid, watching the band write and record albums every summer.
So I taught myself a lot, then started hitting people up, meeting and shadowing engineers.
And yeah.” I shrug. “Now I’m assisting at the best recording studio in the city. Pretty cool.”
“And it pays better than touring, I assume,” Renee says.
I rub a knot from my neck. “The assistant job is unpaid, actually.”
It’s silent between us, just the clatter of stacked plates and the burble of coffee warming up a mug. Diner noise, until Renee finally lets out an “Oh.”
“I have some money from my dad,” I explain. “Less than I was expecting. I, uh. I think he blew a lot of it on booze, which is tough. So it’s not enough to coast forever, but for now…”
Renee nods curtly. “Sure.”
“And I’m meeting so many people at Gentle Giant. It’s a great way to build up my freelance portfolio,” I prattle on. “Which, hopefully, I can fill up with session work so I don’t have to go back to the live-music scene.”
“Or you could just go work in an office like the rest of us,” she points out.
I rap a knuckle against my mug. “See, that’s where you’re wrong.”
Renee draws back, puzzled. “Oh?”
“I am actually incapable of that kind of thing.” I take a long sip of weak diner coffee, and Renee tips her chin, intrigued.
“Maybe it’s that I grew up seeing my dad do what he loved for a living, but I’ve never been able to hold down a normal job.
I can’t make myself care about anything the way I care about music, so I have to find a way to make music work in some capacity. It’s what I’m meant to do.”
“Do you really think that?” Renee grips the edge of the table, leaning in close enough to get a read on me. “You think there’s one specific thing that you were created to do?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I do. Is that stupid?”
Her eyebrows answer on her behalf.
“So you don’t feel like you’re meant to do theater? To perform?”
“I’m meant to pay rent,” Renee says flatly.
“I didn’t dream of coordinating fundraising events for a living, but I wanted to work in theater, so I made a five-year plan to achieve that.
And I’m a good event planner.” She pauses, almost a stumble, like she tripped on her own words.
“Well. I’m usually a good event planner.
” Her gaze hangs low. “Current evidence aside.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, c’mon. We had fun on this trip.” I’m surprised by how much I mean it. Maybe my expectations were low, but I had a far better time than I expected.
Still, Renee doesn’t look up.
“I’m serious.” I nudge her foot beneath the table, demanding her attention. It works. She drags her icy-blue eyes up to mine, but they’re dim. Disappointed, but not in me. In herself.
“Look. Pretend this weekend is a recording session, okay? You hired the right musicians. You mic’d everything up correctly. But you can’t completely control the take, right? You can only create the environment that allows the moment to happen.”
Renee pauses to consider, drumming her nails on the laminate tabletop. “But if this were theater,” she says, “we had an airtight script, an amazing cast and crew, and”—she motions to herself—“an amazing director, if I may be so bold. So it doesn’t make sense that things went so off the rails.”
“So you’re saying nothing ever goes off the rails in theater?” I challenge. “I’m fairly certain you had an audience member snore through your solo once.”
She pins her bottom lip beneath her teeth, but it doesn’t quite block her hint of a smile.
“And also, this isn’t theater,” I go on, “and it’s not music either. It’s just…life. And life isn’t a series of executed plans.”
Renee looks at me a little longer than I expect her to, like she’s searching for something in my eyes. “I guess you’re right,” she acquiesces. “But none of the other bachelorette trips I’ve planned have ever gone so…so…” She circles her hands, searching for the right word.
“Up in flames?”
Renee snorts a laugh, gripping her mug with both hands.
She’s still a little stiff, but less so, her arms resting on the table so that I can see every phase of the moon tattooed on her outer wrist. I look at the tattoo, and suddenly, it’s beneath my fingertips, my hand sliding over hers to press my thumb into the waning crescent.
She tenses for a moment, then relaxes beneath my touch.
“It was a good trip, Renee,” I say, “even if it didn’t go according to plan.”
We have the pictures to prove it. Renee and I drink mug after mug of watery diner coffee while swiping through photos from the weekend.
I show her the shot I got of Gin’s hair catching fire, and neither of us can stifle our laughs.
Tragedy plus time equals comedy, I suppose, although we won’t be showing this to Gin anytime soon.
As she compiles photos into a post, Renee follows me back on Instagram, and it feels like a milestone.
We’re trying, like Gin asked, and I think it might be working.
I’ve just begun to ask about Renee’s tattoos—the moon phases on her wrist and the sun between her shoulder blades—when the other half of the I Do Crew arrives in a waft of expensive hair products.
Chrissy’s salon connection did not disappoint—Gin’s burnt curtain bangs have been trimmed down to eyebrow-length ones that cover her forehead, and while she’s lost a significant amount of length, she’s gained plenty of layers. It’s cute. Flirty.
“I think Rishi is gonna freak out,” Gin says, tugging on her bangs.
“He’ll love it,” Renee assures her. “It really brings out your curls.”
“It’s Little Orphan Annie chic,” I blurt, and Renee shoots me a Watch it look, but Gin isn’t offended. In fact, she looks downright impressed.
“Look at you with the musical references.” She elbows me in the ribs, and I shrug, not beating the charges.
“I guess I’ve been hanging around you theater kids too much.”
“Hey, I’m not a theater kid!” Chrissy protests. “I’m just loud.”
And self-aware, God bless her. The four of us laugh until the booth shakes, but Chrissy’s Weedwacker cackle flies high above the rest, proving her point and escalating our laughter to a roar.
A warm certainty settles over me. Today, there’s no theme, no sequins, no tequila shots, but it’s the most fun I’ve had all weekend.
If only the other bachelorette parties could see us now.
It’s just past noon when we call a car to the hotel, our final destination before it’s back to the airport.
Renee and I play the bachelorette playlist softly from my phone as we gather up errant accessories from around the room.
I’m stuffing my cowgirl boots into Big Blue when the light hits just right through the sliding glass door, and I can distinctly see the butt-cheek prints still perfectly preserved there.
My laugh is a soft breath through my nose, but inspiration strikes.
“Hey, Renee,” I call out, working with some effort to zip my suitcase all the way.
Renee steps out of the bathroom with a mouthful of electric toothbrush. “Urtsurp?” she garbles, then holds out a finger and disappears back into the bathroom. “What’s up?” She tries again, raising her voice over the running faucet.
“I had a thought.”
“That’s…ominous.”
“It’ll be fun, I promise.”
It only takes a minute or two for us to hatch our plan, and Renee’s eyes flicker with mischief as she volunteers to make the phone call. She switches to speakerphone as we shuffle out onto the patio.
“Hello?” Gin picks up on the very first ring. “Everything okay?”
“Um, not really.” Renee’s theater degree is out in full effect. Even I sort of believe the rough edge of worry in her voice. She follows me to the patio of the party room next door, our steps stealthy and soft on the concrete. “Have you looked out at your patio?” Renee asks.
“No, why?” Gin’s voice has an edge now, too. “Is everyone okay? What’s go—”
“NOW!”
On my cue, Renee hangs up, and we both tug our shorts down.
The rattle of Gin drawing open her curtain is followed by a piercing shriek.
Even in the desert heat, the glass feels a tiny bit cold against my butt, and I wiggle it against the door, leaving the best ass print I can.
Beside me, Renee does the same until we both hear the click of Gin unlocking the door.
“GO GO GO!” I yell, pulling up my shorts, but Renee has already taken off at a sprint, crossing back into the safety of our hotel room a few steps before I come barreling in.
“YOU BITCHES!” Gin scream-laughs from behind us, but I’ve already locked our door and pulled the curtains tight, barring any chance of retribution.
Renee has collapsed on the bed in a fit of heavy breaths and victorious laughter.
She pumps her fists while Chrissy and Gin pound on our shared wall, rattling our bed frame and the lamp on the table.
Renee doesn’t even acknowledge it. She’s too busy laughing, fingers splayed across her chest as she tips her head back in a raucous cackle that gets me laughing just as hard.
Just looking at her makes my smile bigger, my laugh louder.
She can deny it all she wants, but Renee Roberts isn’t as straitlaced as I thought, and when our gazes catch, I swear her icy-blue stare is beginning to thaw.
Mom
Hi Alice! Do you know when you might be free for dinner? Love you!
Mom
When do you leave for Palm Springs?? I still have your birthday present! You might want it for the trip!
Mom
Hey sweetie! Hope you’re having fun in Palm Springs! Let me know if you need a pick up from the airport or anything! Love you!