“Because, like…your dad.” Chrissy winces. Not apologetically but from the pure discomfort of the moment.How cringe, I think,for my dad to die.
I wish I could be honest. If I could, I would tell Chrissy and Renee that this year has sucked beyond belief, that it’s so weird to be a bridesmaid right now, weirder than they can even imagine because neither of them has a history of dating the bride or is mourning a dead parent. I would tell them about the memorial concert, about Dad’s replacement, how I have to go back to the Outpost to make room for a new lead singer—and how if there was another reason to go back, a trip like we used to take over spring break, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. If we could go back to the Outpost, if we could sit by the firepit and spill secrets like wine on the living room carpet, maybe the four of us could get along the way Gin, Chrissy, and I did back then, before things gotbad. Maybe we could make good memories, take pictures I remember taking. If I could, I would tell them this is bigger than a party; it could be the thing that makes my summer tolerable.
But it’s not about me, so I can’t say that. What I say instead is “It could be like old times.”
“I don’t think Gin would want to reliveold times, do you?” Renee says, a little louder than seems necessary. “I think Gin would prefer something new.”
And that’s it. It’s done. With a flick of her wrist, Renee crosses off Galena. No further discussion. No taking it to a vote. My heart wrings itself out like a wet towel, defeat seeping down to my toes. But it’s not my party. I can’t cry, even if I desperately want to.
I resign to the back seat of this meeting, apathetic about our remaining options. Nashville gets booted next. The bride isn’t crazy about country music or clubbing, which rules out both Austin and Vegas, too. Three more lines, three more flicks of Renee’s wrist.
“I guess that just leaves Scottsdale and Palm Springs.” Renee twirls the marker between her fingers. It clacks against her stacked gold rings. “Just a reminder, I already have a completely free place for us to stayandan itinerary for a Scottsdale trip, so—”
“Didn’t you say Gin would prefer something new?” The words tumble off my tongue before I consider whether it’s wise to say them.
“Mmm,” Chrissy hums. “That’s true.”
Renee’s nostrils flare, and I can feel my pulse climbing up my throat. She’s a dragon, and I just swiped at her hoard.
“It would be new toher,” Renee argues. “And to you guys. It’s just the same itinerary as th—”
“Nuh-uh.” Chrissy wags a finger. “You said it, Renee. It’s gotta be new.”
Renee chews her lip and clicks the cap of the marker on and off again. Majority rules, and with a defeated sigh, she begrudgingly crosses out Scottsdale and draws a star next to the final remaining destination: Palm Springs.
Chrissy’s high-pitched squeal sets off the dog upstairs. She throws her arms in the air, the pits of her elbows batting against her ears as she sways in time to the barking. “The springs, baby! Get pumped!”
I wouldn’t call myself pumped but a bit smugly satisfied. If I don’t get my way, neither does Renee, who frowns at the board like she’s checking her work—or rather, how much work she has ahead of her. Chrissy raises a toast to our first major decision as bridesmaids, and I abstain, of course, but only Renee seems to notice. She eyes me as she sips, studying me through her wineglass. A pang of something hot runs through my veins; I turn away.
The rest of the evening is a series of more minor bachelorette-related decisions, such asThemes: Yay or nay?AndAre we doing the thing where all the bridesmaids wear black?Chrissy and Renee speak a common language of bachelorette party traditions, and I try to keep up with what I’m voting against. We agree on no themes, no workout classes or major feats of physical exertion, and—much to Chrissy’s chagrin—no penis-themed paraphernalia. By the end of the night, the whiteboard is a mess of ideas, and Renee snaps reference photos on our way out the door.
“How are you guys getting home?” Chrissy asks as we’re slipping on our shoes.
“Red Line,” Renee and I say in unison, and my worried glance collides with hers.
“Right, you guys are, like, practically neighbors!” Chrissy says,and my body registers the state of emergency before she even finishes the thought. “Y’know what? Why don’t you just split an Uber? My treat. I charge rides to my work card, like, all the time.”
Renee smiles weakly. “You really don’t—”
“Already booked it.” Chrissy flips her phone to show us her screen. It’s as bright as her smile, glowing with an estimated pickup time of…now. She motions us both in for a group hug, and we reluctantly allow it.
“Thanks,” I grumble. Renee can’t even manage that much, but Chrissy beams like a pageant queen.
“You know I’ve gotta look out for my fellow bridesmaids.”
Outside, a black sedan is already waiting, and when Renee climbs into the back seat, she doesn’t scooch over, forcing me to go around. Clearly we have similar feelings about our surprise carpool. The car smells way too strongly of air freshener, and with no music playing, I tune in to the layers of traffic and whatever melodies leak from the open windows of passing cars. This, I hope, is how we will spend this entire drive: in silence, each of us staring out the window like two kids stuck in time-out.
Renee, it turns out, has other ideas. After a minute or two, she huffs, “I hope you’re happy.”
I dig my nails into my palms. “Why would I be happy, Renee?”
“Because you’ve made my life infinitely harder,” she snaps.
This does, in fact, make me a little happy, but I don’t admit that.
“This bachelorette party could’ve been simple and affordable,” she goes on. “But no. You had to go and veto Scottsdale.”
“And you vetoed Galena,” I fire back, “which would have been the simplest and most affordable option. You’re the one who said Gin would want something new.”
