“I have some money from my dad,” I explain. “Less than I was expecting. I, uh. I think he blew a lot of it on booze, which is tough. So it’s not enough to coast forever, but for now…”
Renee nods curtly. “Sure.”
“And I’m meeting so many people at Gentle Giant. It’s a great way to build up my freelance portfolio,” I prattle on. “Which, hopefully, I can fill up with session work so I don’t have to go back to the live-music scene.”
“Or you could just go work in an office like the rest of us,” she points out.
I rap a knuckle against my mug. “See, that’s where you’re wrong.”
Renee draws back, puzzled. “Oh?”
“I am actually incapable of that kind of thing.” I take a long sip of weak diner coffee, and Renee tips her chin, intrigued. “Maybe it’s that I grew up seeing my dad do what he loved for a living, but I’ve never been able to hold down a normal job. I can’t make myself care about anything the way I care about music, so I have to find a way to make music work in some capacity. It’s what I’m meant to do.”
“Do youreallythink that?” Renee grips the edge of the table, leaning in close enough to get a read on me. “You think there’s one specific thing that you were created to do?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I do. Is that stupid?”
Her eyebrows answer on her behalf.
“So you don’t feel like you’re meant to do theater? To perform?”
“I’m meant to pay rent,” Renee says flatly. “I didn’t dream of coordinating fundraising events for a living, but I wanted to workin theater, so I made a five-year plan to achieve that. And I’m a good event planner.” She pauses, almost a stumble, like she tripped on her own words. “Well. I’musuallya good event planner.” Her gaze hangs low. “Current evidence aside.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, c’mon. We had fun on this trip.” I’m surprised by how much I mean it. Maybe my expectations were low, but I had a far better time than I expected.
Still, Renee doesn’t look up.
“I’m serious.” I nudge her foot beneath the table, demanding her attention. It works. She drags her icy-blue eyes up to mine, but they’re dim. Disappointed, but not in me. In herself.
“Look. Pretend this weekend is a recording session, okay? You hired the right musicians. You mic’d everything up correctly. But you can’t completely control the take, right? You can only create the environment that allows the moment to happen.”
Renee pauses to consider, drumming her nails on the laminate tabletop. “But if this were theater,” she says, “we had an airtight script, an amazing cast and crew, and”—she motions to herself—“an amazing director, if I may be so bold. So it doesn’t make sense that things went so off the rails.”
“So you’re saying nothing ever goes off the rails in theater?” I challenge. “I’m fairly certain you had an audience member snore through your solo once.”
She pins her bottom lip beneath her teeth, but it doesn’t quite block her hint of a smile.
“And also, this isn’t theater,” I go on, “and it’s not music either. It’s just…life. And life isn’t a series of executed plans.”
Renee looks at me a little longer than I expect her to, like she’s searching for something in my eyes. “I guess you’re right,” sheacquiesces. “But none of the other bachelorette trips I’ve planned have ever gone so…so…” She circles her hands, searching for the right word.
“Up in flames?”
Renee snorts a laugh, gripping her mug with both hands. She’s still a little stiff, but less so, her arms resting on the table so that I can see every phase of the moon tattooed on her outer wrist. I look at the tattoo, and suddenly, it’s beneath my fingertips, my hand sliding over hers to press my thumb into the waning crescent. She tenses for a moment, then relaxes beneath my touch.
“It was a good trip, Renee,” I say, “even if it didn’t go according to plan.”
We have the pictures to prove it. Renee and I drink mug after mug of watery diner coffee while swiping through photos from the weekend. I show her the shot I got of Gin’s hair catching fire, and neither of us can stifle our laughs. Tragedy plus time equals comedy, I suppose, although we won’t be showing this to Gin anytime soon. As she compiles photos into a post, Renee follows me back on Instagram, and it feels like a milestone. We’re trying, like Gin asked, and I think it might be working. I’ve just begun to ask about Renee’s tattoos—the moon phases on her wrist and the sun between her shoulder blades—when the other half of the I Do Crew arrives in a waft of expensive hair products. Chrissy’s salon connection did not disappoint—Gin’s burnt curtain bangs have been trimmed down to eyebrow-length ones that cover her forehead, and while she’s lost a significant amount of length, she’s gained plenty of layers. It’s cute. Flirty.
“I think Rishi is gonna freak out,” Gin says, tugging on her bangs.
“He’ll love it,” Renee assures her. “It really brings out your curls.”
“It’sLittle Orphan Anniechic,” I blurt, and Renee shoots me aWatch itlook, but Gin isn’t offended. In fact, she looks downright impressed.
“Look at you with the musical references.” She elbows me in the ribs, and I shrug, not beating the charges.
“I guess I’ve been hanging around you theater kids too much.”
