Her lip curls, eyes two suspicious slits of blue. “But what about all that mean stuff you said about the itinerary?”
“I have my complaints,” I confess, as if I haven’t already made that clear. “But I’ll save my full review for tomorrow. As for tonight…” I pluck up the room service menu. “We’re getting tacos.”
Renee grumbles in stubborn defeat, then yanks off her bootsand joins me on the edge of the bed. We order the same chicken tacos we had last night, the closest we can get to a routine amid the madness.
“See? This works out great.” I try out an eager, Chrissy-style smile, but Renee seems wary. “I mean it. Those tacos were way better than the food at Lagoon 42, anyway. I think the calamari was made out of the same stuff they make Crocs out of.”
“Great. So I screwed up the restaurant choice too.” Renee blows out a breath and lies back, propped up on her elbows, while I finish placing our order.
“I’m too hungry to entertain your moping right now,” I say, “but I’m getting you a churro, so maybe things are looking up.”
Our dinner arrives in a brown paper bag dropped unceremoniously at our door. Not really room service, but it is food that’s been served to our room, and I’m starving. Renee and I have each had a turn in the shower and changed into our pajamas—red silk shorts and a matching sleep shirt for her, running shorts and an old Willie Nelson shirt for me. From his birthday show in Texas. Go figure.
Our room has no table, so we eat our tacos in bed, but not before laying out towels on the duvet. Renee insists.
“Always doing the most,” I mutter, smoothing a towel flat.
“What was that?” Renee cups her ear. “Thank you for not letting me sleep in crumbs, Renee?Oh, you’re so welcome.”
We swipe at each other on and off throughout the evening, but it’s different than before. More playful, often unnecessarily dramatic for entertainment value. When she mentions a musical and I don’t get the reference, Renee calls me “culturally bereft.” When Renee can’t name a single Willie Nelson song, I call her “thedumbest thing to ever come out of Iowa.” There’s an air of appreciation around every insult and overdramatic diss. Just after midnight, I’m loudly booing Renee for admitting that she flossesthree times a daywhen Chrissy texts us from next door to request we keep it down.
“A first time for everything. The human noise complaint thinks we’re too loud.” I show Renee the text, and she snorts while still actively flossing her teeth. Getting ready for bed feels less awkward tonight, almost familiar, like we’ve had a hundred sleepovers before. But we haven’t. Renee and I have never, ever been friends, and I’m still not sure that we are, but we’re certainly…something. Whatever it is, it wasn’t on the itinerary.
Eleven
For the second morning in a row, my alarm propels me into panic.
Where am I? Whose bed am I in? Did the tour van leave without me?
I draw in a long, stabilizing breath.I’m in Palm Springs. I’m safe. I’m fine.
I am also, once again, entangled in Renee Roberts.
It’s not just absurd; it feels nearly impossible. I slept on top of the covers as a precaution against this, and still, we’re in the same tangled mess as yesterday: Renee’s bare thigh rests on top of mine, one arm slung over my stomach in a half hug. Her warm exhales flutter against my neck, sending a prickle of want across all my nerve endings. I feel her breath hitch as she starts to stir, wincing at the sound of my alarm, then jolting awake when she realizes who she’s snuggled up with.
We both startle back to our respective sides of the bed, and Renee’s eyes flash around the room, rightfully confused. We don’t discuss it, though; when I shut off my alarm, I’m greeted by a text from Gin that pulls all my focus.
Gin’s I Do Crew
Gin Bennett
Good morning!! Hope everyone slept well! I had the craziest dream where my hair caught on fire at a bar…that qualifies as a nightmare, right? Thank you guys for all of your help last night. I literally have the best friends on the planet.
SO. That said. I’m so, so sorry to do this, but Chrissy (my literal hero) has a client who owns a chain of hair salons, and they have a location in Palm Springs! Long story short, she pulled some strings and they’re fitting me in to fix my hair. Thank GOD. Only problem is they can only take me right when they open at 10, which means we’ll probably have to skip drag brunch. I’m so sorry again, but I hope you guys understand. I know I’ll feel so much better once it’s fixed, and that way I won’t be a nightmare the whole flight home! Text me when you wake up just so I know you saw this. Love you!!!
Upon reading the text, Renee lets out a whimpering groan. I look up just as she threads her fingers into her messy blond hair and stares at her phone like she’s trying to explode it with her mind.
“Classic Chrissy,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “She always knows the right people.”
“Guess so.”
“Have you heard the story about her dating a guy for an entire summer just for free VIP tickets to Lollapalooza?”
Renee throws back the duvet and sulks off to the bathroom, somehow not hooked by the Lollapalooza story. I listen for the dull hiss of the shower as it flips on, then the hum of the plumbing as I craft a text to Gin that’s equally silly and supportive. So long as we’re managing schedule changes, I check on our flight home—it’s on time, same gate, same everything. At least some things are going according to plan.
I’m still in bed when Renee emerges, showered and ready, wet hair dappling the shoulders of her red T-shirt dress. I kick off the covers and jump to my feet.
“I can be ready to leave in about ten?”
