Chapter 24 #2
I admire the girl’s boots in front of me.
They’re covered in pearls and glitter, paired with a brown suede dress made mostly of tassels.
Smiling, I note the boots’ resemblance to the handle on my golden needle.
Back in the white room, cold and clean, which sounds, well, like heaven right now.
I even love that this girl is braving the dirt in them. She’s got guts.
She’s got grit.
“I love your boots,” I say.
She spins around.
And no.
Can it be?
Sierra?
Again?
Does this alternate universe deliberately conspire to bring us together in bathrooms?
Our gazes fix on each other.
“Oh my gosh!” she squeals after a minute. Blue cat-eyes bright, voice a country song. She looks healthy. Happy. Whole. “I know you! Newport! From USC!”
“You remember?” I cry, accepting her enthusiastic hug. She was high as a hot-air balloon in that Hollywood bathroom. But then there was the Facebook message. Did I ever respond?
“Remember you? Of course I remember you. We never got a chance to meet up, but your Facebook message meant the world to me.”
I guess I responded.
She leaves her hands on my shoulders after the hug. She’s quiet. Doesn’t let go.
I’ve missed you, Sierra.
Let’s be old together again.
“You—” Her eyes drop to her dazzling boots. “What you said to me. In the bathroom . . . that night. And on Facebook.”
I swallow.
“I heard every word. I took them to heart.” She touches her blemish-free chest. “I didn’t tell you the details, but I was in trouble with some bad people.
And you told me that faith was the only thing that ever held you in your darkest hour.
And I believed you.” She shrugs. “I’m . .
. clean now. Sober. I . . . did it, you know?
I mean, it wasn’t immediately. Or even soon. I was in deep, but—”
She gives a whew.
“Long story, but I—” She pauses. “I lost a baby last year. Miscarriage. Early. Nine weeks. But I was going to keep it, because of the things you said to me.”
I swallow, immensely touched, thumbing through the memories. “Which part?”
She smiles. “You said I’d be a good mom.”
My throat tightens. “I did.”
She nods. “You did. I remembered it the second I found out I was pregnant—and then I remembered what you said when I messaged you from a real dark place in my addiction. I went to church the Sunday after my positive pregnancy test, and what the pastor said, with the music washing over me, I felt this warm feeling and I knew. I just knew I was supposed to try.”
I grab on to her wrists.
“Turns out the guy—or guys, I wasn’t totally sure of the father—well, none of them wanted anything to do with a baby. But yeah.” The edges of her mouth pull skyward. “I turned things around. For the baby. Even though I lost him, he changed my life.”
Sierra never once told me and Quinn about this.
A pregnancy?
Granted, our friendship and conversations orbited more or less exclusively around present day. School, kids, womanhood, life, pickleball. Marriage frustrations, yes. But we rarely discussed the past. Especially our acquaintanceship with her in college.
Especially this.
Did you get pregnant in that other life, too?
Did you ever tell anyone?
Did you have an abortion?
Did nobody ever look you in your beautiful eyes and say you’d make an amazing mom?
In either case, did the pain make her well? Change everything?
I love you, friend.
I wish you’d told me.
What else have we kept hidden away from each other?
I hug her again, not holding the revelation against her. But the truth of it still aches a little, how much love and shared life can exist, right there, alongside our secrets.
“Thank you for telling me that,” I say, feeling the backs of my eyes burn. “I’m so sorry for what you went through. But I’m glad you’re doing so well now. You look fantastic.” She really does.
She holds my hands. “No, thank you.”
The next porta-potty door swings open. Sierra’s turn.
“Wish me luck!” she cries, pinching her nostrils.
I laugh. “Good luck.”
She’s back.
Cell service, indeed, went and quit on me—but I don’t feel the twitch that I usually do without the ready tap of my phone. It’s nice. I take in the scene, this spectacular scene. Youthful. Sublime. Smoky and indie and trendy and wild.
I trek my way to the other side of the grounds, and by the time I do, I feel better.
Much better.
Through throngs of people mostly blissed-out, I crush my way to the front of our VIP section. The early access has secured Quinn and Alan an incredible view. Still not front row or anything, but solid, from the side. I’m as close to Florence as I’ll ever be.
When I find them, Quinn smothers me in a hug, smelling like Flowerbomb perfume, salsa, and other people’s sweat.
“What happened?” she cries. “Don’t even tell me.” She covers her ears in a dramatic show of fear and empathy.
“Another girl,” I shout. “Caught in the act.”
She gasps. “No.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes moon. “The freaking audacity!”
“I know. You were so right. I’m so dumb.”
“You’re not dumb.” She dusts her hands in a show of good riddance. “He is.”
Alan can’t hear what we’re saying but interjects anyway. “You deserve better, Sutton!” he yells. “Forget that guy! Can we make fun of the vest now?”
I cackle—audibly cackle—at Alan.
Alan!
I think to myself that these two will find a way to be fine. I’m going to help make sure of it. I’m also going to take what I’ve learned from observing their dynamic up close. Relationships. Tending. Communicating. Knowing. Watering. Accepting.
Judging less harshly.
Loving more gently.
Being thankful for what you have, while you have it.
Searching for it when you don’t.
Gripping Quinn’s hand, I find her eyes. “I think I need to go.”
“Oh, no,” she protests. “We can’t leave before Dre and Snoop!”
I smile. “Not me. But—me.” I pat my satchel, which she knows contains the pickleball.
Her eyes drop, and she nods in surrender. “Finish the set with us?”
“Of course. And . . . will you do me a huge favor?”
“Fill young you in on everything since the wedding? If she has questions?”
I smile and nod. “She shouldn’t need much, according to the rules. But she’ll need you.”
She hugs me again. “I promise I’ll take the best care of her.”
Under flashing lights and the valley stars, I inhale and exhale, jumping and screaming with my best friend and her soulmate. We needed this night. Quinn, Alan, and me. Young Me, and Older Me, and every me, timeless, all of us dancing, together.
In a live performance I can only describe as ethereal, out of this planet, even better than Coldplay, Florence reminds me of so many crucial things.
How hard it is to dance with a devil on your back.
That I’ve got the love, right here.
That sometimes, you’ve got to run, fast.
I reach into my satchel and count to twenty, before the horses can catch me.