The three of them take seats around my room—Brandon on my desk chair, Mateo on his lap, and Avery by my side on the bed. She steals a tater tot from the small bowl they made for me, reheated leftovers from a bougie brunch spot we hit up earlier in the week.
I scroll through my morning notifications and notice a new text from Derick in the lineup. The first part of the thread is a selfie of him eating sour gummy worms. A pink-and-blue one dangles over his open mouth like he’s a fish about to latch on to the bait.
When you say you don’t like to eat with your hands, does that include candy? If, let’s say, someone were to offer you a cherry-lime gummy worm, would you break out the utensils? If so, how have you survived so long working at a drive-in where your options for break foods are hot dogs, soft pretzels, funnel cakes with strawberry sauce, etc.?
BTW I’m currently salivating over the snack shack menu that you attacked me with.
Underneath is another photo of his healing paper cut with the caption:
Hope I get a cool scar from this.
“Where were you after work last night? Heard you come in late,” Avery says, clocking my uninhibited smile over the new photos on my phone.
Derick and I went from zero to friendship real fast. I’ll need to learn to quiet the unfriend-like fluttering behind my rib cage before it gets out of control.
“Sorry if I woke you.” I lock my phone and set it down.
“You’re good. I had an alarm set for two thirty a.m. so I could be up to catch the first episode of Season Two of that feminist superhero show on Disney+. It’s so worth the hype. I hate being behind the game and getting it spoiled on Twitter.” She’s Exhibit A in the case for Wiley’s closing. Our drive-in can’t compete with 3:00 a.m. drops of buzzed-about shows.
That’s why I think an event like Alice’s could capitalize on FOMO. If you’re not there, you’re not in on the conversation.
Four sips of mimosa later, I say, “I went to the Lonely Lass-O for wings.”
Mateo launches off Brandon’s lap and onto my bed. The tray rocks. Avery heroically salvages the last of my toast tower.
“You went to heterosexual hell? With who?”
“With whom!” Avery corrects. Her creative writing minor is both a blessing and a curse.
“Thank you, Merriam-Webster.” He rolls his eyes and then stares me down. “Now, dish.” A siren wails inside my head. I don’t need to give them more ammunition in the plot for Wren-Dies-of-Embarrassment domination. I’ve given them enough material to last a lifetime. They’ll be telling the closet story at my wedding. I’m sure of it.
Wait. Scratch that. That would only be relevant if I married Derick and… Jeez, that’s not a thought I needed this morning.
“Nobody important.” I finish off the mimosa, sop up the rest of the runny yolk with rye, and set the tray down on my nearby desk, making sure not to knock over the fake Academy Award statue Mateo bought me four years ago engraved withBest Roommate in a Freshman Dorm.
Avery doesn’t let me off that easily. She pulls me back and pins me to the bed. Sheathed in the vines of her hair, I can barely see her possessed eyes as she shouts, “OMG! You were there with Derick! I told him you were in the office, and you went to the Lonely Lass-O together. WTH! This is why we have the group chat, Wren! How dare you break the first rule of group chat!”
“I thought the first rule of group chat was you do not talk about group chat,” I joke to resounding crickets all around. “It’s not a big deal. We ate, he apologized for ghosting me, we did the stupid line dance, and he offered to help me with the Alice Kelly situation.” They look at me like I have seven heads. “Right. Sorry. I want to remount her premiere. I was going to tell you all, but I know how annoyed you were after my out-loud brainstorming sessions for my capstone project, so I kept it to myself.”
“Oh, yup, we started that drinking game. Take a sip of hard seltzer each time Wren says the name Alice Kelly. Take two sips every time he brings upChompin’ at the Bit. Shotgun the damn thing if he sayssecond-wave feminismorthe Hollywood glass ceiling.” Mateo chuckles.
Brandon gives me a sympathetic look. “How do you put up with these two?”
“An excellent question.” I get up, moving swiftly out of Avery’s reach. “I got so caught up in the email debacle that I forgot. Dr. Tanson introduced me to Oscar Villanueva and told him about my research. He said if I was able to make the premiere happen, he might consider having me on his podcast.” Without decoding their reactions, I begin picking out clothes for the day.
“Wren Roland, a guest on a major podcast? Alert the presses!” Mateo yells. “Should I get your autograph now, babe? I promise I won’t sell it.” He crosses his heart and bats his eyelashes, then reconsiders. “Unless you go viral, then that shit’s going right on eBay.”
I roll my eyes and throw a pair of denim shorts onto the free end of my bed. “You know I’m terrible at public speaking. Plus, it can only happen if I help Alice get her house in order to sell. She’s apparently been trying to lug it off for forever. It’s like the ruins of the Roman Forum right now, and I’m not exactly a handy person. At least Derick offered to help.”
“It sounds like he’s looking for an excuse to be around you,” Avery says.
Derick’s question from last night loops back on me:We really can be friends again?
“There’s nothing there,” I admit forlornly. “Last night only confirmed he never felt that way about me and that he just wants to be friends now.”
My prospects are delicate. I can’t be hearing nonsense, allowing them to fill me further with fantasy. Putting stock in what very well could be a mindless offer he won’t even make good on seems stupid. High School Me would’ve jumped at the chance to play what-if with my best friends, but currently, I can’t conceive of a world where this works out for me.
“I’m sorry, babe. That sucks,” Mateo says, losing his last ounce of excitement.
