“Slow down on the mini bar, party room!” Renee hollers, and when she slides the door shut again, it’s like the air in the room has changed. We’ve been mooned; suddenly, nothing feels that serious. This is a party, after all. We’re on vacation. Not my idea of a vacation but a vacation all the same. I snort a laugh at the four round ass-cheek prints left on the glass, and Renee rolls her eyes, but she cracks a smile. When she sashays off to the bathroom to change, I think,Okay. Maybe we’ll actually survive this.
We put on our suits and meet our ass-print artists on their patio just ten minutes past schedule. The heat has gotten worse, but the view almost makes up for it. The sky is one seamless stretch of blue, interrupted only by mountains painted a shade of purple I’ve never seen outside a bruise. “So pretty,” I mutter, ripping the tags off my new neon-green one-piece. This is the first and likely last time I’ll ever wear it.
Past the sunny yellow gates, the Barbicide-blue water awaits, bookended by two amoeba-shaped hot tubs and bright-yellow umbrellas like daffodils springing up from the concrete. Color upon color, and that’s without even acknowledging the hundred or so people milling and splashing about in a rainbow of suits. The only place for my eyes to rest is on Gin’s all-white bikini. Her flip-flops are highlighter yellow, though, a small commitment to today’s neon theme.
“Ready to hit it?” Gin asks.
“Maybe we should swing by the bar first,” Chrissy suggests, sliding on her pink heart-shaped sunglasses—we all got a pair in the goody bags Renee handed out at the airport.
“No need for the bar,” Renee says. “I had the hotel stock the cabana.”
“Of course you did, you master event planner.” Gin shimmies her shoulders while digging through her pool bag, fishing out her own sunglasses—they’re the same heart-shaped ones, only white. When she slides them on, Chrissy snaps a selfie of the two of them, then motions us all in for a group shot.
“Say Rishi!” Gin cues.
“Rishiiiiiiiiiiiii!”
Chrissy takes a few rapid-fire shots from different angles and continues to film as we walk in not-quite unison toward the pool,our flip-flopsth-thwacking like grace notes. Past the gate and the DJ spinning Madonna remixes, the bar is packed with girls ripping tequila shots, and gaggles of gay men in tiny trunks and fluorescent Speedos dance on any and every available surface, sipping from novelty cactus-shaped cups. Neon Pool Party, it seems, was not a theme mandated by Renee; it’s the name of the event, printed on every highlighter-yellow koozie.
Ours is the only empty poolside tent, and we arrive just in time to stop a cabanaless freeloader from setting up in our spot. Who could blame him? Every pool chair and sun umbrella is spoken for. Five years ago, if I were in his shoes, I would have looted our mini fridge by now.
“No way! Hard kombucha?”
Gin wastes no time starting the party. I claim a seat on the hot-pink sectional and listen for the hiss and the snap of the can, bracing myself for the smell. Alcoholic or not, kombucha has always smelled like rotten wine to me.
“Ooh, grab me one!” Chrissy peels off her crocheted pool cover-up to reveal the teeniest neon-green bikini and a body likely built by some offshoot of Pilates. “This is, like, beyond cute, Renee. Thank you so much for booking this.”
“Of course.”
I turn just in time to watch Renee’s fingers pinch open the last button of her white linen shirtdress. It falls open, parting around a black strappy bikini, its neon-pink boning tracing her soft curves at sharp angles. I can feel my pulse in the roof of my mouth. Of course she has the perfect swimsuit for the occasion, one that simultaneously adheres to the theme, stands out from the crowd, and activates a kick of something urgent and hot in my throat.The black is stark against the neon, both high contrast against her skin. But that’s not where my focus is.
It’s not that I forgot Renee had great boobs. They’re one—two—of her very few positive attributes. And she’s always been hot. Anyone with functioning eyes would agree. But the gentle slope of soft skin sitting plush above each cup of her bikini…I mean, c’mon now. Who looks like that? That’s just not fair.
“Um, Alice?” Gin says.
My attention snaps to the bride. “Huh?”
She’s playing with the pop tab of her hard kombucha can. “You’re staring.”
“What? No.” I meet Renee’s sparkling eyes, and a tidal wave of heat crashes over me. She arches a brow, and I start to sputter. “Her—I mean your, uh…” I gesture to…I don’t know what, but I keep waving broadly until I figure it out. “Your…yourshirt.” I motion to Gin beside me. “Isn’t, uh. Isn’t only the bride allowed to wear white?”
“Ooh, she’s right, Renee,” Chrissy hollers, and Renee’s eyes drop to her shirt. She peels it off, eyes on me the entire time. It makes me sweat. Then again, it’s a million degrees out. Everything is making me sweat.
Once there’s a drink in every dominant hand—hard kombuchas all around and a bottle of water for me—we toast to what’s sure to be a legendary weekend. The second round of hard kombuchas disappears as quickly as the first, and round three begins while we’re all still taking turns with the SPF 50. When I offer Chrissy the sunscreen, she bats the bottle away.
“I don’t burn.” She smiles and tosses her blown-out bob. “I’m Italian. We just tan super well.”
“At least put some on your face,” Renee insists. “For wrinkles.”
“Can filler melt?” I wonder out loud.
Gin swats my arm, stifling a tipsy giggle. A better reaction than I’d hoped given I’d meant to keep that as an inside thought. Chrissy is oblivious; she’s fully wrapped up in her phone again, taking a selfie and smirking at a text seconds later. Gin sidles up to her on the sectional. “Who are you texting, Chriss?”
Chrissy presses her phone to her chest, looking faux guilty. “Oh my God, okay, don’t make fun of me. Promise?”
Gin and Renee promise, but I keep quiet. I can make no such guarantees.
“Okay. So.” Chrissy rolls her shoulders back. “Do you remember that waiter from the engagement party? The tall one with the super-white teeth?”
