Cami huffs and turns around, opening the fridge. “Beer?”
“What about a shot?” Giovanna proposes, passing me by to refill her water bottle in the kitchen sink. After fifteen miles, she still hasn’t broken a sweat. I swear she’s poreless.
“Ohmygod.” Leonie pushes her palms against her knees, doubling over. Her blond hair nearly touches the floor as Giovanna rubs her back soothingly. “Can you give us, like, five minutes to recover before proposingshotsat four o’clock in the afternoon?”
Camila looks between us with revulsion. We’re all in athletic gear, our cheeks in various states of blush, our hair matted from helmets. “Not my journey,” she mutters to herself, cracking the tab of an Austin Eastciders can.
In the backyard, situated between a handful of ash trees and a few dogs rolling on their backs, ten professional chefs are prepping their mise en place at foldout tables. Chopping fennel, deseeding lemons, spatchcocking chickens. Beyond them are three Big Green Eggs, one coal fire, a gas grill, a smoker, and a stone pizza oven David had installed when Cami moved in.
Giovanna and Leonie shower in the guest room while I help Camila pick sturdier flowers from the garden. The others join us to set the picnic tables, working around towering piles of marinated meats and garlic cloves doused with olive oil, wrapped in foil sachets.
“We can finish this, J,” Giovanna says, ripping open the plastic on a stack of paper cups. Her hair is still damp, but there’s a slight touch of makeup on her cheeks and she’s dressed now in a simple sundress. “Go shower.”
“I don’t need to shower,” I say.
I’m still readjusting Gio’s utensil placement (to the societally correct arrangement: fork left, spoon and knife right, blade facing inward) on all the place settings when I glance up and notice my friends staring at me.
“Whatdid you just say?” Camila snaps.
I look down at myself in bike shorts, an athletic tank top. A variation of what I wore last night with Will.
“I’ll put on the jean shorts and a T-shirt I brought, but I think I smell fine,” I say.
Gio rubs at the hair just above my ear, pulled into a low ponytail. “Stiff. Fromsweat.”
“It’s not that bad,” I protest. “Do womenalwayshave to show up to a function with perfectly clean hair and a face full of makeup?”
“Womendon’t,” Camila retorts. “ButJosephine Davisdoes. The only way I see you willingly choosing not to take a shower, blow out your hair, and do your makeup is if you’re terminally ill, or under duress.”
I shrug. “I forgot to bring my makeup bag.”
“Between the three of us, we’ve got you covered.”
“Guys!” Leonie cries. “If Josie wants to keep it casual, let her! We’re at a backyard cookout, not a black-tie wedding.”
Camila ignores this, narrowing her eyes at me. She drops the paper napkins onto the table and stomps over, grabbing me by the wrist.
“Ow!” I whine as she pulls me into the house with her.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks.
“Nothing!”
“In the nine years I’ve known you, I havenever,and I meannever,seen you show up to a social function—personal, professional, familial, or otherwise—without atleastfixing your hair into a slicked-back bun with your cute scrunchie and using that three-way makeup thingy for your lips, eyes, and cheeks.”
“The Ilia Multi-Stick.”
“Beside! The! Point!”
“I’m…” With my arms, I gesture in each direction, at nothing. “Mellowing out.”
“That’s the biggest fucking lie you’ve ever told me, Josephine. Are welyingto each other now?”
My eyes narrow back. I cross my arms over my chest, anger flaring at the memory of her words:I’m leaving Revenant.
“I don’t know, Cami!Arewe lying to each other now?”
“What’sthatsupposed to mean?”
