We reach the car right as someone’s phone pings, loud and aggressive.
Viv checks it, then freezes. “So, Birdie, don’t freak out.”
“What?”
“You’ve kind of gone viral?”
My stomach drops like a faulty elevator. “What?”
She turns her phone toward me. There I am. Projected in all my awkward glory, windmilling through a conga line, sunglasses on my head, my blouse slightly askew, shouting “GRIEF ISN’T LINEAR, BABY!” into the night like a backup dancer in an insane asylum flash mob. It’s been reposted by someone with a wine influencer handle and the caption:“When the grief retreat goes harder than Coachella.”
“I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re going to trend,” Viv tuts, like that’s a comfort.
“Viv, I’m on the internet.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You never do.” She pops the trunk and chucks her heels in like a woman who’s retired from consequences.
We manage to get to the car, Marin propped up between Viv and me. Marin immediately starts humming to herself in the backseat, Viv’s scrolling through selfies she took with random people inside, and I’m trying to navigate us toward the drive-thru with the precision of a mother duck leading her drunk ducklings.
“Birdie,” Marin mumbles, resting her head against the window, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“No, like, if I threw up on you, you wouldn’t yell.”
“I might yell a little.”
“You’re still my favorite.”
Viv passes Marin a napkin she stole from the wine tasting table. “Just in case.”
Marin sighs. “I have never been more certain we need fries.”
“I need fries and a TikTok black out,” I whisper.
We roll through the drive-thru like a clown car and order three large fries, one chocolate milkshake, and, somehow, a breakfast burrito.
“Who ordered the burrito?” I try to toss it into the backseat.
Marin raises her hand with her eyes closed. “I did. It felt like a breakfast moment.”
I glance at the clock on the dash, which proudly proclaims 1:30 AM. “I guess we are getting closer to the breakfast realm.”
“Time is a social construct, darling.” Viv pops a fry in her mouth.
Marin moans from the backseat, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
______________
I stand at the kitchen counter, hair in a lopsided bun, gripping a mug of coffee like it’s a flotation device. I’m still wearing last night’s blouse, now mysteriously buttoned wrong, and no pants. Just underwear and the unmistakable look of a woman questioning all her life choices in the harsh light of morning.
Is this who I am now? A pantsless widow with raccoon eyes with only a vague recollection of a conga line and French fries?
