Chapter Thirteen #2
“A little wrong,” she doubles down. “Don’t let it get to your head.
” She brushes her foot against mine again, and my chest floods with heat.
Renee’s cool blue gaze is the softest it’s ever been, and I fumble beneath it.
My eyes leap around her apartment for a safe spot to land.
Somewhere comfortable. Somewhere familiar.
I find a stopping point at the fruit bowl, and an idea clicks into place.
“Do you have plans today?”
“I…don’t think so.” She sets down her coffee and tugs an elastic off her wrist, then piles her hair into a loose knot. “Don’t you work today?”
“Nope.” Today is Cold Sweat day at Gentle Giant, and I’d rather not think about it. Or about Kurt and Mom. “Are you hungry?”
“I could be.”
I swing my legs off the couch. “Good. Because your bananas are about to go bad.”
Renee’s kitchen is as eclectic as the rest of her apartment—every utensil I could ever need hangs off a pegboard beside the fridge, but none of them match.
Enormous industrial tongs—the kind I’d imagine they use at a pig roast—hang beside rubber spatulas in primary colors reminiscent of an Easy-Bake Oven set.
When Renee catches me inspecting her duckling-print oven mitts, she shrugs and says, “It’s all from Village Thrift. ”
“Ah. Love that place. Really came in handy for my disco-cowgirl getup.”
Renee’s nose twitches. “I wouldn’t have taken you as a secondhand gal,” she admits. I have to bite my cheek to fight off a wicked grin.
“Am I allowed to contain multitudes, Renee?”
The bachelorette playlist makes great cooking music—“Girls Just Want to Have Fun” is up first—and when I start to sing along, Renee joins in.
Softly at first while she slices bananas no thicker than a page in a book, but by the chorus, our performance has grown loud and impassioned.
We sing into rubber spatulas, whipping our hair for an invisible crowd.
Around the second chorus, I drop out, and even Renee’s kitchen-karaoke voice blows me away—she has the perfect mix of grit and growl, but the sound is sweet and open, gliding butter smooth over the high notes.
When she catches my eyes on her, she stops, and my cheeks sizzle alongside the pancake batter that I dollop onto the griddle.
I wish Dad were here, I think. I wish he knew that I still make his pancakes. That sometimes, I’m okay.
Once I’ve flipped the last pancake and switched off the stovetop, Renee and I convene at the breakfast bar with freshly topped-off coffees and golden-brown short stacks.
“Heavenly,” she says, just from the sweet, buttery smell.
“It’s Dad’s recipe.” I slice off a bite with the side of my fork. “He used to make me banana pancakes every time he came home from a tour.”
Renee gives me a small smile. “Was he gone a lot?”
“Kind of. A little over half of the year. We went along with him on tours when I was really little, but it was harder once I started school. I had orchestra concerts and stuff we had to be around for.”
“I didn’t know you were in the orchestra.”
“As a kid, yeah. I got started on the upright bass, actually.” I lick syrup from my lips. “Anyway. That’s why I loved summers in Galena. Everybody all in one place for three months.”
Renee hums in recognition. “The…what was it called? The Outpost?”
I bite down on a smile. “Yep. The whole band, plus me and Mom, like a big ole band summer camp. Except the one year in middle school when my parents sent me to an actual band camp, which…was awful, so I never went back. The Outpost was way better. The Handful would write and record an album every summer and tour it the following year. So I got a lot of time with Dad then.” And Kurt, I think, then swig my coffee, trying to forget.
Renee swirls her fork through the syrup pooled on her plate, tracing loops and patterns before she asks, “Do you have pictures?”
“Of Dad?”
“Yeah, and the house in Galena.”
A petty, protective part of me kicks in protest deep in my chest. Now Renee wants to see the Outpost?
After she shut it down as a bachelorette party destination?
I scan her eyes for signs that she’s just being polite or, worse yet, trying to tease me.
Instead, a flicker of genuine curiosity catches me off balance.
I dig up a few spring break photos on my phone: Chrissy, Gin, and I are skiing in one, slapping bags of wine in the snow in the next.
Classic Alice, I think, and my gut twists, but my college memories in Galena are mostly good.
Senior year, our spring break overlapped with the tail end of The Handful’s spring tour, and on the band’s way home, worlds collided for one glorious, drunken night. Those photos are by far my favorite.
“Here’s Dad doing shots of tequila with Gin. And here’s Chrissy doing shots of gin with Kurt.”
Renee leans in for a closer inspection. Her chin hovers over my shoulder, casually close in a way that leaves me floaty. “So Chrissy and Gin know Kurt.”
“Yeah.” I swipe the photo away, but Kurt is in the next one, too—I’m real little, sitting on Dad’s shoulders with Kurt juggling guitar pedals to get a smile out of me.
I set my phone face down beside my syrupy plate and search for a fresh distraction, something to talk about that doesn’t trigger my Kurt-related acid reflux.
I find it, wrapped in gold, in the center of the gallery wall. “I want to ask about your pictures.”
“Oh?” Renee swivels in her seat, tracking me across the room. “Which ones?”
“Well, I know this one.” I brush my fingers over the photo from the Cubs game. “And this one.” The picture on the boat. I’m aiming for casual, like I’m only now noticing the photo in the gold frame when I trace it with my index finger. “What about this one? Who’s the guy?”
Renee breathes a laugh and crosses to join me, looking up at her own smiling face. “That’s my ex, actually.”
My gut reaction is relief, then confusion as to what I’m so relieved about. “Your ex,” I echo.
“Brian,” she says.
“Brian is such a classic ex-boyfriend name.”
“We actually broke up, like, a week after this was taken.” Renee turns to me sheepishly and adds, “I should have done it way sooner.”
“Sounds like a story.”
She shrugs. “Not really. He was a good guy. We lived together and everything, but I…” Renee trails off, and I watch her eyes shift in and out of focus, like she’s deciding how much of the picture to show me.
“We met while working on a show together,” she finally says.
“The very first rehearsal, there was this spark, and we were inseparable. But then, six months later, when we wrapped the show…we didn’t have anything in common anymore. ”
“So you…moved in together?”
“Brilliant, right? But he had a gorgeous condo by the lake, and I thought maybe we were just going through a phase, so when he gave me a key at our one-year anniversary dinner…” She shakes her head. “Not my best decision.”
“And yet he still made the wall,” I point out.
She nods and takes a long sip from her mug. “He’s a good guy,” she says. “Just not my person. We’re still friends. At least friendly. I’m hoping we’ll be like you and Gin someday.”
With that, Renee wanders back toward the kitchen, her hips swaying with every step. Tiny flashes of her red shorts peek out and disappear again beneath the hem of her oversize shirt. It’s hypnotic, and even when I pull my eyes away, they’re pulled right back by the words—
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Renee smacks her phone on the counter, tossing her hands like a disgruntled sports fan. “The maang tikka doesn’t work with the bangs.”
“Come again?”
She groans into her hands and grumbles, “Check the group chat.”
When I do, I find two new texts from Gin—two pictures of her trying on the wedding jewelry that’s been passed through generations of Bhat women.
She models two variations with her new haircut, neither of which are great.
The gold pendant that’s meant to rest on her forehead either disappears behind her bangs or completely disrupts them in a way that looks, for lack of a better word, stupid.
I laugh through my nose, but Renee isn’t amused. Her face scrunches as she pulls her phone close, fingers swiping diligently for solutions. “It’s okay,” she mutters. “We can fix this.”
“What is there to fix?”
Her swiping is audible now, almost aggressive, as though pressing harder will equate to searching harder. “There has to be a better way to style these bangs, right?”
“She could pin them back,” I suggest. “But the wedding is two months away. Her bangs will grow.”
Renee rips her gaze from her phone and pins it to me. “What if they don’t grow enough?”
“Then we’ll cancel the wedding,” I say.
“What?!”
“I’m kidding! Shit, Renee. It’s not that deep. Gin’s not even asking for solutions, is she?” I swipe up in the text thread and flip my phone to show the evidence. “Look. She’s just asking which option we liked better. She’s not asking for help.”
Renee mushes her lips, slowly shaking her head. “I don’t know, Alice. I’m just worried.” Her tongue wets her bottom lip, and it’s like windshield wipers for my brain. What were we talking about again?
“Did you see that list on Gin’s phone?” Renee asks, and I resettle into the conversation.
“I did.”
“It’s a mess,” Renee says. “That’s not how you plan a wedding, Alice. They need help.”
I draw in a breath, and my shoulders come with it, but my lips stay pressed in a firm, unwavering line.
I, too, have my concerns about Gin’s lack of a proper wedding plan, but this is Gin Bennett we’re talking about.
Bringer of lasagnas. Forgiver of dumb, drunk mistakes.
Maybe I’m giving her too much grace, but it’s only because she’s done the same for me.
“She’s trying her best,” I finally say. “And correct me if I’m wrong—you know I’m a rookie—but it’s not our job as bridesmaids to plan the wedding for her, is it? Aren’t we just supposed to support her and do whatever she asks us to do?”
Renee frowns, considering. She taps out a rhythm on the counter, her rings clanging against the granite. “Well, Gin did ask for my help on that list.”
“She did,” I agree. “And maybe you can encourage her to be a little more specific with her asks so we know exactly how to help.”
Renee nods and returns to her phone, visibly calmer. “I think I’ll send her that checklist from Kyra’s wedding. And Aubrey had that amazing spreadsheet.”
“And I’m sure you have a ton of resources from work,” I tack on.
“Yeah, yeah.” Her eyes stay glued to her screen until my phone buzzes with eight new texts—links to spreadsheets titled “WEDDING MASTER SHEET” and “Seating Chart 3.0” filled with names and information from eight separate weddings. Aubrey, Kyra, two different Katies…
“God, you have a lot of friends,” I mumble.
“Two of them are my sisters.” Renee sets her phone down, mission complete, then scrubs her hands over her face, blocking a sound like a groan crossed with a whine.
“She’s just so bad at this. I know I’m being a bitch, but it’s ridiculous.
I’ve been in eight other weddings, and not one of those brides has been this disorganized. It makes no sense.”
But it’s perfectly clear to me. “Did those other brides have their parents in the picture?”
Renee’s face goes blank, lips parting with a breath of protest. “But the Bhats—”
“Are Gin’s in-laws,” I finish. “You know that’s not the same. They’re already hosting in their yard, and it’s not the big wedding they would’ve wanted…I’m sure it’s complicated. It’s always complicated with family.”
Renee twists one of her rings, brows pinched in thought. “But…but Gin said we’re her family, right?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And she doesn’t have a maid of honor. It’s all of us.”
“I…that’s true,” I concede.
Gin’s voice is in my head. She’s told us more than once that she couldn’t do any of this without us. And what have we told her? Anything for you.
“Then we’re not just bridesmaids, are we?” Renee concludes.
“You’re right.” I give a firm nod. “We’re all she’s got.”
Gin’s I Do Crew
Gin Bennett
Hey ladies! Thanks to Renee and her amazing wedding planning templates, Rishi and I are finally feeling organized and have a specific vision for this wedding. Thank you again, Renee, for all your help and advice!
We finished compiling the list of items we’ll need for the wedding, and we’ve decided to divide it up between the bridesmaids, the groomsmen, the Bhats, and of course, me and Rishi.
My hope is that the three of you can work together and hit up Chicago’s secondhand stores to find these things.
Per Renee’s suggestion, I’ve tried to be as specific as possible!
Rishi and I request that the bridesmaids thrift/provide the following items:
- 20 folding chairs (we’re looking for a specific style, I’ll send pics. We already have 10, and we LOVE the look, so we just need 20 more that match)
- 5 round foldable dining tables (60 in.)
- 30 plates (ceramic, 12 in.)
- 30 forks, spoons, and knives
- 30 dessert plates (ceramic, 8 in.)
- 30 water glasses (green glass, no clear, 8 oz.)
- 2+ large coolers (one pale green, one coral pink)
- 2+ large trash cans (metal, matching please!)
- 2+ recycling bins (not the blue ones—black or tan preferred)
- 2 long tablecloths for bar and buffet (ivory or eggshell, scalloped edges)
- 5 round tablecloths for dining tables (ivory or eggshell, scalloped edges)
- 8 vintage rugs (4x6 feet to create an aisle)
- sound system (Alice’s work???)
- 2 handheld microphones (Alice’s work???)
- speakers (Alice’s work???)
- 30 cloth napkins (pale green)
- 30 place cards (Renee, you have the best handwriting—would you mind?)
- 7 terrarium centerpieces (I’ll send the link to the DIY instructions)
Let me know if you have any questions. Thanks in advance you guys <3