“I did have fun at the pool,” I admit.
“I packed three other bikinis, and I need to send Waiter Boy a pic of me in at least one of them,” Chrissy adds.
Our bride turns toward our undecided voter. “Is that okay, Renee? I don’t mean to suggest that your ideas aren’t great. I just don’t want to be zapped before we go out tonight.”
Renee gives a wan smile, folds her hands, and says, “The pool sounds perfect.” For an actor, she’s not very convincing.
Back in our room, I expect Renee to give me the third degree about this morning’s alarms, but she seems to have dropped that grievance and moved on to a larger one—today’s change of plans.
“We flew all the way here, and for what? To sit by the pool? You justhadto push the pool, didn’t you?”
I rip the tags off a highlighter-yellow tankini and sigh. “Renee, has it occurred to you that maybe we’re on the same team?”
She stomps around the room, still in her hiking boots, her full lips pressed into the smallest, grumpiest pout. The thought drifts by like a pool floaty in the deep end of my brain:Renee is pretty cute when she’s mad. I shove the thought back to wherever the hell it came from. I am absolutelynotgoing there.
The I Do Crew regroups on the patio: Gin in her same white suit from yesterday, Chrissy in an orange string bikini, and Renee in a plunging red one-piece that feels less like a bathing suit than a trap. Ever since this morning in bed, it’s like my brain has recalibrated. It’s impossible to keep my eyes off her tan lines, the soft pale skin of her breasts against the honey-bronzed parts of her that have already seen the sun. I slip on my heart-shaped sunglasses to block my wandering gaze, but for the rest of the day, it’s like the universe is playing pranks on me. Somehow, I’m the one who ends up rubbing sunscreen into Renee’s back. Not long after, Gin orders a frozen piña colada and Renee ties the cherry stem into a knot with her dexterous tongue. It makes me pulse. Whatever activated this morning when we woke up intertwined, I can’t shut it off. It’s like an alarm, ringing in the background every time our eyes catch from across the pool.
“This heat is starting to get to me,” Renee mutters. The water whirls around her as she turns and wades back to the shade of the shallow end. I watch the sun tattoo between her shoulder blades dip in and out of the water, undecided on whether to rise or set.
Maybe the heat is starting to get to me, too.
Ten
The disco-cowgirl dress code allowed plenty of room for interpretation. Chrissy struts into the hotel lobby in a pink sequin dress, black knee-high stiletto boots, and a rhinestone-studded cowboy hat. She is amoment, and I am…feeling some regret. Not about the bell-bottoms or the red bandanna tied around my neck. But maybe I shouldn’t have committed to this stick-on handlebar mustache.
I knew the mustache was a risk, but in my head, it was also an enormous hit. Hilarious pictures. A well-crafted memory, compliments of exemplary bridesmaid Alice Pierce.
Instead, Chrissy looks momentarily confused before adjusting the bandanna around my neck and resticking my mustache where the heat has caused it to peel up. “The mustache is…such a fun choice!” she says, underwhelmed, if not a little confused.
Gin’s reaction is better; when she stumbles into the lobby in a cow-print vest over a sparkly, strappy white dress, she staggers back, points, and shouts, “MUSTACHE!” with an explosive laugh. I’m extremely pleased with myself but a little concerned about the lag in Gin’s eyes.
“She was loving that mini bar,” Chrissy murmurs.
“Should we grab you some water before we go?” I suggest.
Gin grips my shoulder for stability, adjusting the strap of her silver kitten heels. “I’ll drink water at…What’s the restaurant? The Blue Lagoon?”
“Lagoon 42,” a voice behind us says, and we turn to face Renee, by far the chicest disco cowgirl among us. Her blond hair cascades in loose waves from beneath a black cowgirl hat, and she has the boots to match, plus heaps of rhinestone jewelry that hang like fringe around her neck and wrists. Of course, she’s dressed in her signature red, a vest with matching trouser shorts that graze her knees. The outfit is a knockout, and it registers in my throat. Because it’s also very…well…gay. I have no clear read on Renee’s sexuality, and herSiblings or dating?picture remains a mystery. But this outfit? That’s a Kinsey six, and Renee herself is a perfect ten.
Our Uber arrives, and we give Gin the front seat, squeezing three bridesmaids across in the back. I’m stuck in the middle, battling for space with Chrissy’s extra-long supermodel limbs. A thought zips past.
“Chrissy. Weird question. Are you a model? Like, for your job?”
She revs up her Weedwacker laugh and swats a hand. “Oh, you’re way too nice to me, Ali Pal.”
Another dead end in my pursuit of what this woman does for work.
Lagoon 42 is a big wooden building surrounded by both real and artificial palm trees. Inside, the lights are dim and blue (like lagoon water, I suppose?), and Gin stumbles twice on the way to our reserved table…or rather, our reserved bar top.
“Sorry, gals,” the hostess says. “We overbooked. Lotta bachelorette parties tonight.”
There’s no sympathy in the tick of Renee’s jaw, but Gin isunfazed. She claims a barstool and unfolds a menu, perfectly tipsy and content, and hey, if the bride’s happy, we’re all happy. We fill in the surrounding seats: Chrissy on Gin’s left, Renee on her right, and me on the far end, shouting to be heard over the thudding club beats.
“Should we all do a round of water first?!?” I yell. Gin’s eyelids look droopy, and if she doesn’t slow down, we’ll be carrying her out of Lagoon 42 in approximately 42 minutes.
“A round of water,” Renee repeats to the bartender, who nods and hands the first glass to Gin. The bride pouts and flicks her straw, but the protest ends there.
“I get it, I geeeeeet it,” Gin drawls. “Safety first.”
