“Forgive me for not wanting any of us to relive your college days,” she says icily.
“And forgivemefor thinking that Gin deserves better than you recycling your old work and passing it off as new.”
“I have one month!” Renee wags a finger at me before putting up three more. “Four weeks! Do you know how difficult this is going to be? Can I take awildguess and say you’ve never planned a bachelorette party?”
I slouch back, wishing I could slip between the seats. “I’ve never even been to a bachelorette party,” I admit.
“Aha! Of course you haven’t. If you had, you would know that I’m right.”
“And you’realwaysright, aren’t you? Justobsessedwith being right.”
“I’m not obsessed with it,” Renee hisses. “I just. Am.Right.”
Our driver switches on the radio and instantly turns up the volume, drowning us out with an early-aughts throwback, and not-so-subtly reminding us we’re not alone. I’ll send Chrissy money to tip this guy extra well and make up for tanking her Uber rating, but per the ETA glowing on the driver’s phone screen, I have ten minutes before Renee Roberts is no longer my literal captive audience. And I made a promise to Gin. I need totry. So I sigh, crack my neck, and turn as much as my seat belt will allow, determined to look Renee square in the eye.
“Look. I’m sorry if I pissed you off tonight,” I start. “You pissed me off too. We’re probably going to piss each other off a lot in the next few months, but even if you hate my guts—”
“I don’t hate your guts,” Renee interrupts. “I don’t hate anyone’s guts.”
“Fine. I’m just trying to say—you’re completely valid in disliking me.”
I wait for her to correct me again, but she doesn’t. Instead, Renee shifts her weight and smooths her hands down her skirt without comment.
“I know I wasn’t the best person when Gin and I were together,” I go on. “But that was five years ago, Renee. A lot has happened since then. You probably weren’t the best version of yourself in your early twenties either.”
“Inmyearly twenties, I was enrolled in one of the top MBA programs in the nation.”
My laugh cracks through the car like a lightning strike. “Well, pardon me for forgetting I’m in the presence of the patron saint of having her shit together.”
“I’m not a saint,Alice.” Renee says my name like a swear. “I’m just not a mess. There’s a difference.”
I bark out a single disbelieving laugh. “Well!” I toss my hands. “There you have it! Gin asked me totry”—I make air quotes—“to get along with you, but if you’re not playing along, then that’s it. I have officiallytried.”
It’s hard to get much of a read on Renee; the lights of the city cast oddly shaped shadows across her face, and just when I’m sure we’ve settled back into our mutual time-out silence, she blurts a question into the dark.
“Do you not drink anymore?”
Surprise zips up my spine—once, then again when Renee’s eyes land on mine. They’re the tiniest bit warmer and more curious than her standard icy stare. A muscle somewhere deep in my core unflexes.
“I’m sober,” I finally say.
“Since when?”
“Since Dad’s health took a turn. About three years.”
“Right,” Renee says softly, then after a short skin-crawling silence, “I’m sorry, by the way. About your dad. That must be tough.”
Toughis exactly the word. Tough like a gristly piece of meat that you can’t chew through, no matter how hard you try. Tough like a playground bully who’s waiting for you in the same spot, rain or shine. For nearly a year, the grief has been consistent and unbreakable, something I can only wear through little by little but never all the way. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s been tough.”
“Congrats on getting sober, though.” Renee’s tone is more even and earnest than it’s ever been—at least when directed at me. Something stutters inside me at the sudden warmth, but Renee ices right back over. She straightens, lips pressed into a firm line, before muttering, “I never would’ve guessed Blackout Alice had it in her.”
I scoff through my nose. “Yeah, well. I never would’ve guessed I’d be going to Palm Springs with Renee Roberts.”
She rolls her eyes, but they don’t meet mine again. Instead, Renee is back to gazing out the window, watching the lights blur into streaks. Without looking at me, she adds, “Anything for Gin.”
“Anything and everything for Gin,” I agree, and I swear I see the corners of Renee’s lips twitch—not with a snarl but not quite a smile.
Hey Dad,
