One
Of all the insufferable events straight people have invented, engagement parties must be the worst. Among the worst, at least, next to gender reveals and Dave Matthews Band concerts, neither of which I've been unlucky enough to attend. Prior to this evening, I hadn't been to an engagement party either, and it would've stayed that way, if not for Virginia Bennett.
So much of my life falls under that category: if not for Virginia Bennett. A decade ago, if Gin hadn't handed out cookies to our entire freshman dorm, I might have gone all four years at Dunlap College without making a single friend; if not for her soft red hair and freckles, I might have graduated still not knowing I was gay. As my friend, my girlfriend, my ex, and now my friend again, Gin has redirected my sails so many times, all of which led us here: to a roomful of unfamiliar faces ready to celebrate her engagement. And we will celebrate, of course.
Once we find her.
Imagine a Dave Matthews Band concert without Dave Matthews. Imagine a gender reveal without the looming threat of a forest fire. It all pales in comparison to an engagement party without the bride. We've checked the bathroom, the patio, the parking lot, even the dumpsters out back. Now, the groom and I have resorted to taking shifts: One of us takes a lap to look for our bride while the other guards the exit in case she returns or tries to escape.
Presently, I'm manning the post, harnessing my frenetic energy into shredding monogrammed cocktail napkins. Silver trays of champagne flutes rattle past, plucked up by members of the raucous but unbothered crowd. Maybe it's the heavy pours in the signature cocktails, but everyone seems too wrapped up in the wonderful time they're having to notice a missing bride.
"Alice, hey." Rishi rounds the corner, looking quite a bit worse for wear. The man is 90 percent stress, 10 percent pit stains, with two half moons soaking the armpits of his navy suit jacket. "Any luck on Gin?"
I shake my head. "Still just that one coworker who saw her at the bar earlier."
Rishi's lips flap with a sigh. He runs his fingers through his dark hair, wet with sweat. "Have we tried her phone?" he asks, sounding desperate.
"Are you talking about Virginia's phone?" Rishi's mother materializes beside me, her sari a flash of turquoise in my peripherals, but my attention sticks to the white clutch in her grip. "I think it's in this bag." She frowns and gives the purse a shake. "It's hardly stopped buzzing. The bride asked me to hold it while she ran to the bathroom."
"I can check the bathroom," I say. Again. For the third time.
There's a visible tick in Mrs. Bhat's jaw, and her plum-colored lipstick looks less flattering on a snarl. "Well, let's hope she's in there." Both her words and her glare are directed toward her son. "There are two analysts here from the firm who have to leave before dinner. They drove in all the way from the city, so I need you to at least say hello."
I try not to bristle at this flagrant display of priorities. I was under the impression that the goal was to find Virginia so she could enjoy her own party, not take advantage of a networking opportunity, but maybe I misunderstood. Regardless, I choke down any commentary about how I, too, drove in from the city or that I, too, am supposed to leave early. It's not worth mentioning so long as we've got a bride on the loose.
"Why don't you go talk to the analysts." I guide Rishi a little closer to his mother. "I'll check the bathroom again and try to talk to the staff."
Mrs. Bhat seems pacified by the compromise, and Rishi is nothing if not a team player. "Thanks again for helping out," he says, so earnest that I can hardly stand it.
"Yes, thank you . . ." Rishi's mom trails off, but her mouth stays open and ready, like my name might appear on the tip of her tongue.
"Alice," I prompt.
"Alice," she echoes. "Alice, you're a good friend."
Maybe for her it's a throwaway compliment; for me, it's exactly what I needed to hear.
After a second unsuccessful check of the bathroom, I reroute to the bar, the site of tonight's only confirmed Gin sighting. It's possible that the bride had a few too many glasses of wine and wandered off, a classic Gin maneuver back in our college days. Not that I'm one to talk. You don't earn the nickname "Blackout Alice" by sitting at home drinking milk.
I'm dialing back into my role as gay Nancy Drew when someone behind me scoffs almost cartoonishly.
"Um, hello? Are you just gonna stand there without saying hi?"
I whirl around, following the bright, booming voice to its source: Chrissy, the final third of our college trio, balances a glass of wine in one hand, the other firmly planted on the waist of her pink satin dress. She's just as tall as I remember, but her hair-once long and box-dyed black in the bathroom of our college apartment-is much shorter now, a sleek coffee-brown bob.
"Oh, um, hi!" I clear my throat. "Chrissy! I almost didn't recognize you."
"Uh, duh. Maybe because it's been, I don't know, an eternity?" Chrissy pulls me into the kind of lung-crushing hug meant to make up for the last five years. She smells like citrus and cherry blossom, notes I can place only because I read them on her perfume bottle dozens of times back in our Dunlap days. Love Spell, I think the scent was called. I have never known sisterhood quite like living with Chrissy, a roommate who not only accepted me for wearing the same dirty leggings multiple days in a row but also willingly lent out her good perfume to help mask the smell of crotch sweat.
Chrissy guarantees there's no oxygen left in my lungs before releasing me to slowly reinflate. "Can you believe our Ginny girl is getting married? And oh my God, don't you just love Rishi?"
"Who wouldn't love Rishi?" I say. Truthfully, I've had more interactions with the groom in the last half hour than I have in the ten months that Gin and I have been back in touch, but I haven't heard a single bad word about the man. From what I can tell, Rishi treats Gin a whole lot better than I did.
"So what's new with you?" Chrissy asks eagerly. She does everything eagerly. Always has. "Are you still touring with that band?"
I fumble her gaze, falling into the rockslide feeling in my chest. Chrissy hasn't seen me since my early retirement from rock star life. "I left Cold Sweat a few years ago, actually."
She sticks out her bottom lip. "That's too bad! You guys were good."
They probably still are, I think. I'm just not a part of it.
I clear my throat and bravely lift my gaze to hers again. "I'm an assistant at Gentle Giant now. It's a pretty prestigious recording studio."
Chrissy hums around a sip of wine. "I think Gin mentioned you were doing some studio thing."
My nerves stand alert, a fast-piling stack of follow-up questions clogging my throat. What else has Gin said? Did you know I would be here? Has she mentioned my dad? I swallow twice and try a more relevant question. "Speaking of Gin, any chance you've seen her?"
"I was about to ask you the same thing," Chrissy says with an eye roll. "Like, hello? Virginia? You're literally the bride. Show up to your own party."
Before I can provide any context, a dark-haired waiter interrupts with a tray of champagne flutes. Chrissy plucks up a glass, officially double fisting, but not without giving the waiter an appraising up-down. "Thanks, cutie." She winks. "Love the tux."
The waiter pauses, considering Chrissy for another moment, then offers me the tray.
"No thanks," I say. "But any chance you've seen the bride?"
Oblivious, Chrissy adds, "She's the one in white."
The waiter tilts his head toward the hostesses' stand. "Bathroom up front," he says in a low, casual grumble, like he's not saving the day with this intel.
I'm gay Nancy Drew again, sparking to life at a much-needed clue. "I thought there was just the one bathroom in the back."
"There are two more single stalls," the waiter explains, still speaking directly to Chrissy.
I toss back a "Thank you!" as I speed off toward the front of the restaurant. "Chrissy, I'll catch you later, okay?"
"Sure thing!" she calls after me. "Let's grab a drink and catch up soon!"
But I know we never will. I'm sure she knows it, too. We'll see each other at the bridal shower and again at the wedding, where we'll likely have nearly identical conversations to this one, insisting that we have to hang out sometime, both of us knowing we don't really mean it.
I weave between clusters of well-dressed well-wishers, half in suits and cocktail dresses, half in tan tunics and jewel-toned saris. Rishi's dad emigrated from India, but his mom grew up here in the northern suburbs of Chicago in a less traditional Indian household; together, their friends and family make this mid-tier Italian restaurant look like the photo shoots Dunlap College used to do. We all know the type: They pick out one student per skin tone and pose them together so the brochure looks diverse. Plus they've got me in the mix, a visibly identifiable lesbian with a shag haircut and canary yellow pantsuit. All this and a gay person? Your liberal arts college marketing department could never.
The hostess points me down a short hallway, and as the waiter promised, there are two more bathrooms. I grab the handle of the ladies' door with the confidence of someone about to complete an escape room, but it barely gives.
A deep voice-decidedly not Gin's-barks from behind the door. "Locked means occupied!"
Shit. "Right, of course, sorry!"
I take a step back, then swivel around when a soft, familiar voice squeaks, "Alice? Is that you?"
I press my ear to the gents' door. "Gin?"
There's a full ten seconds of metallic clicks and switches as she futzes with the lock before pulling the door open an inch, just enough to catch a flash of her red hair and a hint of panic in her mossy hazel eyes.
"You okay in there?"
"Sorta." Gin's eyes bounce left to right. "Do you have your purse on you?"
"Have I ever carried a purse?"
She sighs. "Right . . . just get in here. I need help."
There's no time for questions; Gin grabs my wrist and yanks me inside with a swift tug, and once I can see more than an inch of her, I have my explanation as to why she's been MIA. The big red stain dribbling down her white slip dress has her looking more like a wounded World War II soldier than a bride.
"You're telling me we've been looking for you for almost an hour because you locked yourself in the bathroom over a stain?"
"It's not just a stain," Gin argues. "It's a huge stain on a white dress on a day where people are going to be taking a trillion pictures of me. I can't walk around my engagement party looking like I've been shot."
A giggle slips past my lips, which I instantly regret. "Sorry, sorry," I mumble. "You just . . . you do kind of look like you've been shot."
Gin groans and rubs her temples. "I was hoping you'd have one of those stain-remover pens."
It's laughable that she thinks a Tide pen would help her case. She needs a bucket of bleach or, ideally, a whole new dress.
"So what do you want me to do?" I ask.
Gin's gaze ping-pongs from the mirror to me, from my shoulder pads to my shoes and back. "Could you switch with me?"
"Are you kidding?" I squint at the stain, then down at my yellow pantsuit. "I'm not wearing white."
"Neither am I." She motions to the big red blob on her chest. "I can't go out there like this, Alice. Please?"
A kick of guilt mixes with the obligation bubbling in my gut. It's that weird anything for the bride feeling that spreads like the flu leading up to a wedding. If Gin could let me back into her life after what a shitty girlfriend I was to her, the least I can do is let her look better than me at her own engagement party.
I paste on a smile. "You know what? Anything for you."
I turn around to undress, the sound of my zipper mixing with Gin's "Thankyouthankyouthankyou." I hand off my pants, blouse, and jacket behind my back, but despite plenty of sucking in and shimmying, I don't have a prayer of zipping into her dress.
"Can I have my blazer back? To cover the fact that this thing doesn't zip?"
Gin laughs, then drapes the jacket over my shoulders. "I look more bridal without it anyway." She pauses, then adds, "You can turn around, you know. It's really not a big deal."
"I'm trying to be respectful." It's been years since Gin and I were a thing, but this is her engagement party, after all. The least I can do is try not to look at her naked.
"You're funny," Gin says. "But most of these people don't even know we dated, and if Rishi or I cared, you and I wouldn't be here right now. And also, I'm clothed, so, really-turn around."
When I do, I'm face-to-face with a much more Zen Virginia Bennett, pulling off that shade of marigold even better than I did. It almost looks like something she might've worn intentionally. Meanwhile, I'm testing the limits of her rejected dress. It stretches tight like a drumhead over my boobs, drawing even more emphasis to the big red stain.
"I look like a bull's-eye," I mutter.
Gin smirks. "Sorry." But I know she's not really, and that's okay. It's her day. The first in a long chain of days that are hers, actually, but if anyone deserves that, it's Gin. She's earned the right to invent as many prewedding celebrations as she wants and make me wear whatever bullshit outfit at all of them.
We barely make it three steps out of the bathroom before Rishi rushes over like a skinny linebacker, nearly tackling his fiancée to the ground. I wince at the sweat marks he's probably getting on my blouse, but Gin remains unbothered. She smooths Rishi's wet hair off his forehead and kisses his cheek. That's true love, I guess-when someone is that gross and you want to kiss them anyway. I never quite got there with Gin . . . or with anyone, but the secondhand high I get watching them is unparalleled. It swells in my chest and prickles my feet. So I'm sure that it's real: true love, the kind that warrants multiple parties to properly celebrate.
The tinkling of silverware against glass slices through the din of the crowd. Mr. Bhat stands with his water glass aloft, directing us all toward our seats. “Dinner is about to begin.”
Shit, I think.
Dinnertime already? I feel around for my phone to check the time but come up empty handed. I must have left it in the pocket of the pants currently being worn by the bride, who is blissfully unaware of my attempts at telepathic communication.
“Before we eat,” Rishi’s father goes on, “I’d like to say a few words about Rishi and Virginia.”
A lump forms in my throat. I was hoping to be out of here before any of the dad stuff started, but I’m not going to pickpocket the bride during her future father-in-law’s speech, so I steel myself instead.
“As many of you know,” Mr. Bhat begins, “Rishi and I are quite close. So close, in fact, that he chose to come work at my firm. I’m not only his father but also his boss—and Rishi has not yet requested any PTO for the wedding, so, Virginia, make sure he gets on that, or I may not approve it!”
A low rumble of laughter moves through the crowd. I stare at the floor and try to pick out other sounds, the clatter of silverware in the kitchen and the gentle ambient music, anything besides this speech. Even so, when Rishi’s dad speaks to how proud he is of his son, his voice splinters, and it chips at my composure.
But I refuse to cry. I close my eyes and ride the sensation, imagining that I’m steering a boat over choppy waters when my insides rock up and down in waves. And this is only the engagement party. How the hell am I going to survive the wedding?
At last, Rishi’s dad ends his speech with a toast, and a murmur of cheers trickles through the crowd. I turn to tap my invisible glass against Gin’s, but she and Rishi have since wandered off, leaving nothing beside me but an empty space. The lump in my throat doubles in size. It’s well past time to go.
When I relocate the bride, she’s already wiggling my phone in front of her. “Looking for this?” She drops it in my palm, and the time lights up the screen. I’m very late, but when I start my goodbyes, Gin breaks out the puppy dog eyes.
“You’re leaving already?”
“I have dinner plans with my mom,” I remind her, and she backs off the guilt trip.
“Right. How is she doing?” ”
“She’s all right,” I say. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her, so it’s mostly an assumption. “It’ll be good to check in on her and the house.”
“And what about the Galena house?” Gin asks. “Any word yet?”
I shake my head. “Still trapped in legal purgatory.”
Of all the unique miseries of losing a parent, the paperwork has been the most surprising punishment. The house jointly owned by Dad and his band is just one frustrating piece of the puzzle of settling his affairs.
“I miss it,” I sigh, something I haven’t even admitted to myself. “Not just the Outpost, but all of Galena.”
“Ohmygod, GALENA!?”
I swear my skeleton jumps inside my skin. It’s Chrissy, naturally. In college, Gin and I joked that Chrissy was our live-in noise complaint. It’s nice to know some things don’t change.
“Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” Chrissy says. “I just heard Galena, and I was like, hello? Spring break throwback.”
“God, I miss those days.” Gin looks momentarily wistful before fully frowning. “In retrospect, the band never should have trusted three college girls in the same house as their recording studio.”
“Especially after we spilled all that boxed wine on the carpet freshman year,” Chrissy admits. “The band should have banished us for that.”
I laugh, my first honest laugh of the day. “You think The Handful never spilled booze in their recording studio? How do you think those records got made?”
“Wait. Hang on.” Chrissy dives into her purse and pulls out her phone, then swipes until her eyes flicker. “There it is.” She shows us a photo I both forgot existed and don’t remember taking. There are a lot of those, unfortunately, but this one isn’t so bad. In it, Gin, Chrissy, and I can’t be more than twenty years old or less than ten drinks deep. We’re three across on the porch swing at the Outpost, smiling like we’ll be that young forever. It’s a sweet picture, but my stomach begs to turn itself inside out, and I’m not sure if it’s grief or the memory of vomiting coconut rum. What I’d give to be young, drunk, and stupid again, not yet wise to how bad things could get.
“This is gold.” Gin laughs, and Chrissy swipes to another photo. This time, my stomach sours entirely. We’re in the studio in the basement of the Outpost. A baby-faced Gin has two drumsticks stuck in her mouth, pretending to be a walrus, which could be adorable if not for my sad, lightless eyes beside her. It could pass as normal back then, just typical college stuff, the way I was drunk almost every night. Blacking out was an every-weekend type of thing, something to laugh about over hungover dining hall breakfasts.
Chrissy swipes one more time, and my stomach flops. This picture is the worst by far. She zooms in on a shot of me passed out with my head in a guitar case. “Pfft.” She smirks. “Classic Alice.”
Those two words echo through me—Classic Alice—and even though I’m standing completely upright, I feel like I’m tipping backward, falling through space until Gin catches me with a steadying smile. She knows what I know: Blackout Alice is a thing of the past.
“Such good memories in that house.” Gin squeezes my shoulder. “And we have your dad to thank for all of them.”
I like how often Gin brings Dad up. It almost feels like he’s not gone, or at least it’s proof he was ever here. I feel warm and rooted in place, at least until my phone buzzes with another text from Mom. I’ve lost track of time again, but Gin stops me before I can restart my goodbyes.
“I know you have to go, Alice. But can you please hang back for just five more minutes? For me? I have to give you something. Chrissy, you too.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, wavering. There’s that weird obligated feeling again. Mom will understand, I decide, so I smile and nod, and Gin leads us to the bar, where she produces three periwinkle gift boxes: one for me, one for Chrissy, and one for . . .
“You haven’t seen Renee, have you?”
Dread drops into my stomach like an anvil onto a cartoon mouse.
Renee freaking Roberts. Maybe I should have expected to see her here, but it’s been years since I’ve thought of her at all, much like you don’t think about a stain once you’ve treated it. You just wear the dress again, forgetting there was ever a problem until, in the right light, you can see that it was never really gone.
“I haven’t seen her,” Chrissy says.
Gin scans the room. “She had a work thing, so she might not have made it.”
The nausea begins to subside.
She’s not here, Alice. You got off easy. Time to leave and start preparing for how to avoid her at the next event.
“Wait—isn’t that her by the door?”?
I look up, following the line of Chrissy’s outstretched finger until I land on a flash of blond that makes my upset stomach throw a full-blown tantrum. And here she comes, seeping into our evening in a cherry red leather jacket, the clack of her high heels growing clearer and louder alongside my heartbeat, which thuds up my throat.
Gin squeals and scurries to meet Renee halfway, folding her into a hug. “You made it! Oh my God, I really didn’t think you’d be here.”
My gut kicks in protest.
Well, Virginia, we have that in common.
The last time I saw Renee Roberts, she was the tooth fairy, and I was a piss-drunk Sonny Bono being tossed out of my own apartment. What sounds like a Mad Lib is actually about par for the course so far as interactions between me and Renee. At least one of us has been in costume every time our paths have crossed: Halloween bar crawls, themed parties, theater productions . . . even now, her black shift dress and red leather jacket could pass as her take on Cruella de Vil, and this wine-stained white dress makes me a literal target. Or perhaps a wounded dalmatian? I’d rather not stick around to find out.
One of Rishi’s relatives intercepts Gin for a photo, so it’s only Renee who joins us at the bar. She thumps her bag on the bar top, rattling every glass. “I’m so sorry I’m late, gals.” Her voice is just how I remember it, a coarse mezzo-soprano. She gives me a bored once-over, down and up again, then pops her lips. “Alice.”
A chill rolls down my spine. “Hi, Renee.”
With that, she does a sharp quarter turn toward Chrissy, boxing me out, but I can still hear the smile in her voice as she says, n toward n towar le in her “And
you. It’s been forever, hasn’t it?”
“Two forevers, actually,” Chrissy teases. “Last I saw you, I believe we were dueting . . . Lady Gaga?”
“Close,” Renee says. “I was dressed as Lady Gaga. We were dueting songs from
Grease.”
There’s an ache in my chest like a dull saw pulling across my lungs. Gin’s karaoke costume parties have been her birthday tradition since college, and given the damage I did at her twentyfourth, I’m not surprised I wasn’t invited to her twenty-ninth, but it does nothing to quiet my anxiety, which won’t stop screaming at me that I don’t belong here. But you were invited, my better sense argues. You’re supposed to be here. So why do I feel like everything would be easier if I left?
“So Gin said you had a work thing today?” Chrissy asks, and Renee nods, her blond waves dipping down her back.
“Leave it to the Blomquist to pull me in last minute on a weekend.”
“The Blomquist Theater?” I wonder aloud.
Renee’s gaze shoots through the room like a run in a cheap pair of tights, stopping just short of me. In a voice like artificial sweetener, she asks, “What other Blomquist is there?”
I swallow at least a dozen comebacks. I caused enough scenes in my day, and when Gin bounces her way back to us, I’m glad I kept my mouth shut.
“Sorry about that.” Gin reclaims her wineglass. “Ready to do presents? Make sure you sit next to the one with your name.” The three of us follow instructions, and Gin coyly adds, “You probably already know what these are.”
I blink down at the box. It can’t be what I think it is, can it? Chrissy and Renee seem to think it is, based on their matching smiles and jumpy eyebrows. I tug the bow loose and lift the lid to reveal a matte-black tumbler with my name printed on it in loopy iridescent letters. Beside it, a small cream notecard waits with a question that sucks the air from every corner of my lungs:
Will you be my bridesmaid? Chrissy is the first to her feet, her bracelets clanging like wind chimes as she dances toward the bride for a hug. “YES! A million times yes, duh!”
Renee’s response is more subtle. She closes her box gingerly and looks up at Gin with a smile and a nod, quiet and doe eyed and almost as moved as I am by the ask.
When Gin’s eyes land on mine, I slow my breaths, trying not to hurry this moment away. There’s too much to feel and not enough time to feel it. Joy. Pride. Disbelief. My best friend and undoubtedly the greatest person I know is getting married, and she’s chosen
me of all people to stand by her side. I’m completely humbled and completely shocked all at once, but I know my line, and I say it proudly.
“Of course, Gin. It’d be my honor.”
That last word triggers something in Chrissy, who wags a pink manicured finger between me and Renee. “Wait. Who’s the maid of honor?”
“I don’t have a maid of honor.” Gin straightens, a proud closedlip smile lifting her cheeks so far that her freckles nearly kiss her eyelashes. “All three of you are so important to me, and you all have such specific skills and roles in my life, so I’m dividing up the duties.”
Chrissy nods along intently, and Renee reaches into her purse, producing a small red notebook and a pen that she poises dutifully over a fresh page. I pinch my brows together in an attempt to look equally attentive.
“Chrissy, I was hoping you could work with Mrs. Bhat on the bridal shower since you’re so connected throughout the city,” Gin says, and Renee scribbles along with her, taking diligent notes. “Renee, you’re the event planner, obviously, so I figured you could take the bachelorette party. And Alice.” Gin turns to me last, a warm glow flickering in her eyes. “Would you want to give a speech at the reception?”
A buzz scurries from my chest to my fingertips, and for the second time tonight, I’m worried I might cry. “Of course,” I choke out. “I would love to.”
We all pose for a picture with our bridesmaid presents—Renee and Chrissy each got customized wineglasses, and my chest aches with gratitude that Gin thought to give me something I’ll actually use. The four of us scrunch in for a selfie, and I strategically hold my cup in front of my chest to block some of the stain.
“Say Rishi!” Chrissy sings. “Rishiiiiiiiiii,” we say in unison. It works just as well, if not better than, saying cheese.
“Oh-kay, sending this to everyone immediately.” Chrissy’s nails take off at a canter, clacking against her phone screen as she summons each of our contacts into a single text thread. She still has my number. That feels nice. “Oh my God, bridesmaid group chat!” Chrissy squeals. “Yay, it’s starting!”
“Yay!” I echo. If it sounds a little forced, it’s because it is. I’m excited to be Gin’s bridesmaid. Shocked, yes, but also so far over the moon that my soul is in orbit. Prior to dating and living together and eventually going no contact, Gin was my closest friend, and it’s such a privilege to be back in her life—not to mention her wedding. But even college Alice couldn’t match Chrissy’s energy without downing a few shots first. Now, sober and scooching toward thirty, trying to be young and fun feels like wearing a waterlogged sweatshirt.
Our bridesmaid selfie has a domino effect. Guests flock to the bride for photos, and Chrissy volunteers to play camerawoman, saddling me with Renee, who looks deeply annoyed that I’m here. Lucky for both of us, I’m about not to be.
“Well, I’ve gotta head out.” I tip my head toward the door. “I’m already late for dinner with my mom.”
The bow of Renee’s top lip twitches in distaste. “How like you,” she mutters, eyes somehow both icy and bored.
Just like that, I’m fuming. Were I not so desperate to eject myself from this conversation, I would point out that she was the one late to the engagement party. But that’s not me anymore. I reach for my keys only to realize—again—that Gin has my pants and everything in the pockets.
“Gin?” I interrupt from a distance. “Do you have my keys?”
The bride steps away just long enough to hand off my key ring and hug me goodbye. We make a vague plan to grab dinner this week or next, and Chrissy squeezes me even tighter than she did earlier. Then she and Gin are back to their photo line, leaving me and Renee to exchange half-hearted waves.
What I try to say is
Good to see you! But that’s a lie. It hasn’t been good. What comes out instead is just “See you,” and even that earns me an eye roll.
“I guess so,” Renee grumbles loud enough for only me to hear, but she traps me in her stare a second longer, freezing me in place with two vicious slivers of blue. “Quick tip for next time? Maybe don’t wear white if you’re not the bride.”
A chill shoots up from my feet, but I’m not allowed the benefit of explaining myself before Renee boxes me out again, joining Chrissy on her quest to photograph Gin from every angle. After all these years, Renee hasn’t changed a bit.
I knew
of Renee Roberts long before we ever met. Before Gin became a music teacher, she worked at an arts nonprofit, and Renee was her favorite coworker. They both studied theater in undergrad, and Renee still occasionally booked roles and performed around the city. When Gin described the vision board hanging in Renee’s cubicle—the clipped-out pictures of lit up theater marquees behind words like
ambition and
goal- getter—I knew for certain this person was not for me.
There has never been a shortage of things that are
not for me. An office job like the one where Gin and Renee met, for example, is
not for me. Neither is theater. Anything that could broadly be described as
woo-woo, vision boards included, is definitely not for me, and neither was college, although I still snuck out of Dunlap with a diploma. Renee, on the other hand, earned her MBA from one of the country’s most prestigious programs. She had a fiveyear plan and aspirations of working for one of Chicago’s major theaters, and I had an alt country band and no real direction. By the time I finally met Renee Roberts in person, I already knew what to expect: my opposite. The sun to my moon, a grounded earth sign versus my flighty Gemini sensibilities. Gin always said that Renee was the best; from the moment we met, Renee acted like she
knew it. Clearly she still does.
A different version of me—the version Renee used to know— wouldn’t let her have the last word with that “don’t wear white” comment. A different Alice would dig in her heels and order another round, throwing insults and drinks until she knew for certain that Renee had lost and she herself had won. But I’m not that Alice anymore. Not even close. Instead, I box up my tumbler, reminding myself that this stupid cup alone and the fact that it’s not a wineglass are proof positive that I’m not who I used to be. If I stooped to the level of making a vision board, the only thing on it would be to prove Renee wrong.
Copyright © 2026 by Becca Grischow. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
