It’s a tradition. Every January 1st, after the chaos has been somewhat contained, we toast with last night’s leftovers and make questionable resolutions over slightly flat mimosas and drag-brunch scraps. Patti rustles up a tray of cocktails, mostly champagne and vaguely orange leftover Jell-O shots, as the rest of us gather and settle around the bar.
“To surviving,” Dixie says, raising her glass.
“To surviving,” we echo, clinking plastic flutes together.
As they all start talking over one another, I sit back, sip my drink, and take it in for a moment. I love what I’ve built with this club, but this group of weirdos makes it home. We’re family.
“To May! For getting us through another year,” Patti says, lifting her glass again. She may be an unholy mess of a human and an even messier drag queen, but she’s my best friend and my ride or die. I love her for everything she does for this club and for me.
The others echo her as I offer a demure smile and wave them off. “Enough of the sappy stuff. Resolution time. Who’s going first?”
“I resolve,” Alexa says solemnly, “to never date another boy who lists his job as ‘entrepreneur’ but lives in his mom’s basement.”
“Again,” Patti snorts. “You said that last year.”
“This time I mean it,” Alexa insists. “I want an adult. Someone with real chairs.”
“Bold of you to assume chairs are the deal breaker,” Dixie snarks.
“I resolve,” Dee says, ignoring the argument breaking out around her, “to finally learn how to do a death drop without dislocating my hip.”
“That’s my resolution for you,” I mutter. “I’m not running an urgent care, and I can’t afford to replace you, darling.”
They all look at me.
“What?” I ask, sipping my drink, ignoring the middle finger Dee shoots my way.
“Your turn,” Dixie says, pointing her flute at me. “Resolution time.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I resolve to…”
“To stop ghosting good men,” Dee cuts in.
“To let someone get past first base this year,” Patti adds.
“To get laid,” Alexa declares. “Let’s not be coy.”
I hold up both hands. “Excuse you all. I’m selective.”
“You’re terrified,” Patti counters, grinning.
They’re not wrong.
I open my mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. I think of the one person I ever let in all the way. The one who left. The one who might still haunt my poor, broken high school heart if I let myself look back far enough. But that’s ancient history.
I plaster on my best performance smile and raise my glass. “Fine. My resolution is to take one risk this year. Just one.”
There’s a beat of silence, brief but loaded, before the room erupts again.
“Oooh,” Alexa croons, leaning forward like the gossip-hungry twink she is. “Does that mean you’re finally gonna try to find The One That Got Away?”
“Or let someone new get past your fortress of push-up bras and emotional detachment?” Dee adds.
Dixie fake-gasps. “Wait. Are we talking a real risk? Like feelings? Or just letting someone see you without your brows on?”
“I’ll have you know my bare face is stunning,” I sniff, lifting my chin, ignoring the way last night’s cakey, cracked makeup is melting off my face as we speak.
“Stunningly haunted,” Patti deadpans. “Like a Victorian ghost child.”
