“Well hello to you, too,” I grumble.
Renee sets her jaw, pushes out a sigh, and tries again. “Hi, Alice.” She says it like it’s work. “Like I asked, do you need something?”
I shake the bag again. “I thoughtyoumight need a croissant.”
“No thanks.” Then she’s back to her laptop, probably typing up a very long list of reasons I should leave her alone, which is precisely why I won’t. It’s a little fun, getting on Renee’s nerves.
“Whatcha working on?”
Renee glances up at me, annoyed, then back to her screen. “Bachelorette stuff.”
“Like what?”
She sighs again, then clicks her tongue. “Actually, since you’re here, I could get your information for booking flights, if you have a sec.”
“I have lots of secs,” I rattle off.Shit. No. NO!“Seconds! I mean seconds! I have plenty of seconds! I have time!”
My cheeks are on fire, and a flicker of something combustible dances in Renee’s eyes. She laughs, a bright, airyhathat pins me in place as I sink into the empty seat. I’d classify this squarely as laughingatme, notwithme, but it’s some consolation to know Renee is capable of laughter. As she types, her rounded red nails hit every stroke with the even precision of a trained pianist, and I catch myself staring. The spell only breaks when she spins her laptop and slides it across the table, presenting me with the usual airline forms so I can key in all the customary data: name, birthdate, TSA PreCheck info.
“These might have been better questions for the bachelorette questionnaire,” I point out.
Renee is, as usual, unimpressed.
“That questionnaire is foolproof,” she insists. “I’ve used it eight times.”
“Did you say…eight?”
“Yes, eight.”
“You’ve plannedeightbachelorette parties?”
A small smile passes over Renee’s lips, one that saysI’m guilty, but it’s barely a misdemeanor. “I’m an extraordinary event planner.”
“Oh, I remember,” I say. “You sogenerouslyreplanned all of Gin’s birthday parties.”
“I wouldn’t have had to replan them if you planned them well enough in the first place,” she says matter-of-factly.
“What more did you want from me? It’s a karaoke costume party. I wore a costume. I rented a karaoke machine.”
“And youbrokethe karaoke machine on her twenty-third. If I recall, you drunkenly kicked it over when I tried to sing ‘Seasons of Love.’ ”
“I would have done that sober.”
“Ohsure.” Renee props her chin on her fist, playing therapist. “And when Gin brought you to see me in a show and you snored through my entire solo, would you have done that sober, too?”
A cold burn of shame washes down my throat. “I was kind of counting on you forgetting about that,” I admit. Or at least I was counting on her not bringing it up.
Considering how much of my early twenties is lost beneath a blanket of blackouts, it seems unfair of my brain to preserve all my worst memories. I can still feel the jostle of my shoulder asGin shook me awake, the blurred confusion of being sent home at intermission, but it’s the look in Gin’s eyes that I’ve tried and failed to forget. She was angry. Disappointed. But worst of all, not even a little bit surprised.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pull in a deep breath that morphs seamlessly into a sigh.
“I’m sorry I did that,” I say. And I mean it. “I’m sure I apologized to you back then, too, it bears repeating. I really am sorry.”
When I open my eyes, Renee’s scowl has softened to a skeptical frown. “I’m not sure that you did apologize back then.”
“Well, if I didn’t, then I’m doubly sorry,” I say. “Can I make it up to you? Do you want to sing something now? I promise I’ll stay awake.”
I catch the smallest tug of a smile on Renee’s lips, but it’s gone in an instant.
