Chapter 11 #2
“I’ll ask Quinn. If I can get it together. And if the birthday girl even wants me there.”
I flinch at a slap on my booty and turn.
“Don’t be silly,” says Rachel. “Dan can’t come anymore. I know, some boyfriend of three years, right?”
Try husband of seventeen, skipping out on your fortieth.
Ugh.
“So, I want all my friends there. Just don’t ever do that”—she circles a hand chaotically toward the dining room—“ever again.”
I blow out a breath.
I wish I could promise her.
“I cannot believe you dragged me here.” Quinn elongates every syllable like it’s a piece of taffy. Quinn loves taffy. All candy. Clubs, not so much. Club sandwiches, club soda, country clubs—then and now, these are the clubs for Quinn.
But she also loves me. So when I told her about my no-good, very-bad day and need to earn some goodwill with my coworkers, she only hesitated a little. And it only took one bag of Swedish Fish to bribe her.
I tried Parker too.
Can’t tonight, but I’ll pick you up at ten tomorrow. Also that place is intense. Don’t stay out too late!
I admire yet again Parker’s solid head on those pretty shoulders. I don’t know if he has other plans tonight or if this is him taking space—but I’m admittedly disappointed. If nothing else, he’s a fantastic friend and seems to look out for me.
Now I’m dragging Quinn past the never-ending line of girls in crinkly satin dresses, silk tops with black leggings, long tanks over sparkly skirts. In my own white peplum dress and Quinn’s mini emerald-green number, we stand before the bouncer and tell him we’re here for Rachel.
He ushers us in like we’re stars.
Red Vine—off Vine Street—pulses with energy, Top 40 beats remixed, and of course, all things red. Waitresses in latex catsuits à la “Oops! . . . I Did It Again” weave in and out of the crowd, every cocktail finished with a piece of licorice. Clever, on theme.
I’m the oldest person here by a decade. On the inside, at least. On the outside, though, I blend in like just another Hot Tamale in the whole box.
I don’t know how to hold this juxtaposition.
Because as my gaze pans around, I note that the place feels kind of .
. . intense, for sure, but also maybe oppressive.
Something in my spirit retreats. This never was my scene.
There’s a darkness in here. Do I go to church in LA?
I’ve never not gone to church. Feels like I need it now, more than ever.
I tell myself to find out soon.
For now, this is very much not church.
And I don’t like it.
I avert my eyes from multiple female dancers strutting on the bar.
I wasn’t expecting the entertainment. They’re not strippers, exactly, in their leather two-piece ensembles, but they’re close.
Close enough that I wouldn’t want Reid anywhere near here.
Close enough to think of my daughters and swallow.
Absently I reach to my stomach, for something that isn’t there.
“This is a lot,” I yell to Quinn.
She nods back, cupping her mouth. “I’ve heard all about this place. Med school kids are crazier than you’d think!”
Leading her by the hand—my young feet pain-free in my skyscraper heels, God bless them—I find our group in a corner with low-slung tables and plush velvet seating. Axl, Rachel, Evan, Jess, Holly—they rise to greet us with hugs.
Rachel grabs my hands. “I’m so glad you’re here! Should we all go dance? Do you need a drink first?”
“I’m good!” Quinn and I say at once, exchanging a smile.
In our own conga line, we bob our way to the dance floor.
My shoulders relax when we reach it, and I split off into the night with my closest friend.
Quinn and I crack up belting out “Love in This Club,” dancing and smiling, forgetting.
We both let go, just like Elsa. We continue like this for the better part of an hour, and the nostalgia has me squealing to “Bleeding Love,” to “Disturbia,” to jam after jam after jam.
I’m lost in the bliss. It’s a riot. Just so much fun, letting loose with her. When was the last time I met friends at 10 p.m.? With nowhere to be in the morning?
When “Circus” by Britney Spears comes on, though, the chorus hits me like a slap, an unwarranted strike of emotion.
I stagger a bit. Out of nowhere, I am a conscious mother again, thinking of Britney and whatever the heck she’s truly going through, maybe not far from this place.
Her prison. Her pain. I remember her saying she prayed nonstop from her darkest time in captivity.
It’s possible I’ve been internalizing her memoir to an unhealthy degree, but .
. . looking around, everything slows, and I sense the darkness again.
It’s heavy and thick.
The dancers, so much red, the vibe.
Then I spy Rachel and Axl, in the middle of the dance floor, together. Their hips are locked, their lips awfully close, her hand hooked around his neck. What about the boyfriend of three years? Evan is cheering them on. I look away as I’m sure they’re about to kiss.
No, I don’t like this.
I don’t like it at all.
I pull Quinn to me. “Want to come to the bathroom with me?”
“I’m thirsty!” she shouts. “I’ll get us some water? Meet back here?”
I nod.
I’m still trying to shake the images of my coworkers about to make out and Britney Spears dancing with knives on Instagram when I find the—surprise—red door. I push it open with a dose of red-hot annoyance to match.
Immediately I halt in my heels.
What now?
Are you kidding me?
Hunched over the sink is a pin-thin blonde in a silver metallic minidress and clear platforms.
At twenty-three, I might’ve assumed she was washing her face. But grown-up me knows exactly what this girl is doing, confirmed when my eyes dart over to the small tray.
I spot the line of white powder.
Right here. In the public bathroom.
I can’t help myself. I’m a mom. I lurch at the girl as she looks up at me in the mirror—but then I gulp. Hard.
Because I know her.
Sierra.
It’s so unexpected, another chance encounter with her so soon. I pause within a few inches of her, and she scowls at me, black pupils enormous inside her blue irises. Even in her state, though, she’s striking. Bright-blonde blanket of hair and kitten-like features.
“Do I know you?” she asks, Southern accent still thick as mashed potatoes. She shoves her paraphernalia aside, as if I hadn’t already seen it.
My heart hurts—physically, painfully aches.
“Yes,” I say, shrugging. “Sutton Lancaster? From Alpha Gamma at USC. We . . . hung out on the rooftop once.”
Someday we are best friends.
She sways before sneering, “Newport! Of course. What, you want a hug? The sorority handshake?” She giggles, wobbling, then actually extends her hand to me.
And you know what?
I grab it.
I grab it for all I am worth, right there in front of her drugs.
I slip her the grip of our sisterhood, and I hold it.
I do not let go like Elsa, whom she resembles, a lot.
I look her straight in the eye.
“Listen, I know you might barely remember me. And I don’t”—my gaze hops to the counter—“I don’t care what you’re doing,” I lie, caring tremendously. “But I want to tell you something.”
Hitching one ankle behind the other, she looks so uncertain for just a flash, like her own little girl, whom I know and love so much.
Time is slipping.
I feel it.
“You don’t have to do this,” I blurt. “You can change things. You do change things. I don’t know what happens to reroute your path, if it’s sudden or gradual, sooner or later—but you change.
” My eyes trace her face. “You’re clean someday, sober.
You’re a mom. An incredible mom. And you’re sweet.
The kindest person I know.” I pause. “And you’re happy. Are you happy now?”
She hasn’t blinked. She hasn’t moved. And just when I think she hasn’t heard a single word out of me, I watch her cat eyes flutter.
She brushes her finger across one blushed cheek.
Shaking her head, she whispers, “I—don’t—”
I yank her into a hug, but she stiffens immediately. She doesn’t exactly pull away, though, so I hold her one second longer, embracing the massive awkwardness, embracing her. She reeks of cigarette smoke and spearmint gum, of floral perfume and hard living.
“You’re going to be okay,” I say, gripping her shoulders like she usually holds on to mine. “Sutton Lancaster. Look me up if you need me.”
I hope I see you again, friend.
I release her then, slipping into a bathroom stall after one of the boldest, strangest things I’ve ever said to somebody.
When I return to the sink, I’m alone, except for some residue on the counter that I know is not powdered sugar, confirming it wasn’t a dream.
I say a prayer as I wipe it up. Guide her. Protect her. Be with her. Cross our paths again in this life.