“Or how’s this? You mentioned needing a ride to Gin’s dress-shopping appointment. I could drive you. And I promise not to talk to you the entire drive. Consider it an extension of this belated apology.”
Renee rubs her lips together, considering. She spins the gold band around her middle finger—once, twice. “All right,” she says on the third spin. She tips her chin once. “You have a deal.”
“Oh.” I blink at her, feeling suddenly off kilter. I didn’t think she’d take me up on that. I clear my throat and sit a little taller. “All right. Great. So I…can pick you up? Or we can meet at my place. Whatever’s most convenient.”
Renee’s eyes narrow as she leans back in her seat, arms folded over her chest. “Trust me, Alice,” she rasps. “Nothingabout you is convenient.”
Saturday, June 14
Renee Roberts
Morning. Are you picking me up or should I meet you at your place?
Renee Roberts
I’m walking over. Pick up your phone.
Renee Roberts
I swear to God Alice if you don’t pick up your damn phone
Renee Roberts
I’m about to buzz your gate
Renee Roberts
If you’re still asleep I swear to God
Renee Roberts
This Uber is like $200 Alice are you fucking kidding me right now?
Renee Roberts
I CAN SEE YOUR CAR OUT HERE I KNOW YOU HAVEN’T LEFT
Renee Roberts
I’m getting an Uber.
Seven
My morning is a high-speed race against the laws of time and traffic, and against all odds, I might be winning. Granted, I’ve broken many speed limits and possibly the sound barrier, but I squeal into the parking lot of Kilpatrick’s Bridal Outlet just nine minutes past Gin’s appointment time. Not great but also not technically possible by the GPS’s projections. Had I known picking up a Friday night shift would keep me at the studio until 3:00 a.m., I never would’ve taken it, but it’s too late now. I throw my truck in park, fling open the door, and take off at a sprint, then a jog, and finally a walk, huffing and puffing into the store.
“Are you okay?” the girl at the front desk asks, and I nod, too breathless to form a sentence. I scan the shop for a redheaded bride and startle back when I spot my own reflection instead. My sweaty pink face is embarrassing enough without the bed head or the crusty white ring of dried toothpaste around my lips, but maybe no one will notice my busted face thanks to my completelyinappropriate attire: terry cloth pajama shorts, Nike slides, and a sweatshirt that has never before left the house. On it, a cartoon beaver balances a tower of martinis on his head above the wordsBEAVER LIQUORS.
“I’m…with them,” I pant, gesturing vaguely with one hand and cleaning up my toothpaste mustache with the other. “The group that just came in. Gin? Virginia?”
Once the clerk has verified the bride’s name and my sanity, she directs me past the racks of tulle toward our designated shopping station. There are rows of them, little shopping cubicles, each with its own changing room and three-way mirror. Around a raised wooden platform, four high-backed pink velvet chairs—practically thrones—are arranged in a crescent shape, and I finger comb my hair before slinking into the last available seat.
“Look who’s here!” Chrissy reaches over to squeeze my forearm by way of hello.
Beside her, Gin’s smile doesn’t quite stick, but there’s still excitement in her “Yay!”
On the opposite end of the crescent moon, Renee’s upper lip curls like a fish snagged on a hook, and I swear I feel the ground tremble beneath me. She folds one long, tan leg over the other, glances down at her watch, then back up at me. Not with her usual icy stare but with a blank, flat expression—the face of a woman who was expecting the worst and got exactly that. Shame sinks like a lead weight into my stomach, and I begin a much-needed apology tour.
“Gin, I’m so sorry. And Renee—”
