“Hey, I’m not a theater kid!” Chrissy protests. “I’m just loud.”
And self-aware, God bless her. The four of us laugh until the booth shakes, but Chrissy’s Weedwacker cackle flies high above the rest, proving her point and escalating our laughter to a roar. A warm certainty settles over me. Today, there’s no theme, no sequins, no tequila shots, but it’s the most fun I’ve had all weekend. If only the other bachelorette parties could see us now.
It’s just past noon when we call a car to the hotel, our final destination before it’s back to the airport. Renee and I play the bachelorette playlist softly from my phone as we gather up errant accessories from around the room. I’m stuffing my cowgirl boots into Big Blue when the light hits just right through the sliding glass door, and I can distinctly see the butt-cheek prints still perfectly preserved there. My laugh is a soft breath through my nose, but inspiration strikes.
“Hey, Renee,” I call out, working with some effort to zip my suitcase all the way.
Renee steps out of the bathroom with a mouthful of electric toothbrush. “Urtsurp?” she garbles, then holds out a finger and disappears back into the bathroom. “What’s up?” She tries again, raising her voice over the running faucet.
“I had a thought.”
“That’s…ominous.”
“It’ll be fun, I promise.”
It only takes a minute or two for us to hatch our plan, and Renee’s eyes flicker with mischief as she volunteers to make the phone call. She switches to speakerphone as we shuffle out onto the patio.
“Hello?” Gin picks up on the very first ring. “Everything okay?”
“Um, not really.” Renee’s theater degree is out in full effect. Even I sort of believe the rough edge of worry in her voice. She follows me to the patio of the party room next door, our steps stealthy and soft on the concrete. “Have you looked out at your patio?” Renee asks.
“No, why?” Gin’s voice has an edge now, too. “Is everyone okay? What’s go—”
“NOW!”
On my cue, Renee hangs up, and we both tug our shorts down. The rattle of Gin drawing open her curtain is followed by a piercing shriek. Even in the desert heat, the glass feels a tiny bit cold against my butt, and I wiggle it against the door, leaving the best ass print I can. Beside me, Renee does the same until we both hear the click of Gin unlocking the door. “GO GO GO!” I yell, pulling up my shorts, but Renee has already taken off at a sprint, crossing back into the safety of our hotel room a few steps before I come barreling in.
“YOU BITCHES!” Gin scream-laughs from behind us, but I’ve already locked our door and pulled the curtains tight, barring any chance of retribution. Renee has collapsed on the bed in a fit of heavy breaths and victorious laughter. She pumps her fists while Chrissy and Gin pound on our shared wall, rattling our bed frame and the lamp on the table. Renee doesn’t even acknowledgeit. She’s too busy laughing, fingers splayed across her chest as she tips her head back in a raucous cackle that gets me laughing just as hard. Just looking at her makes my smile bigger, my laugh louder. She can deny it all she wants, but Renee Roberts isn’t as straitlaced as I thought, and when our gazes catch, I swear her icy-blue stare is beginning to thaw.
Mom
Hi Alice! Do you know when you might be free for dinner? Love you!
Mom
When do you leave for Palm Springs?? I still have your birthday present! You might want it for the trip!
Mom
Hey sweetie! Hope you’re having fun in Palm Springs! Let me know if you need a pick up from the airport or anything! Love you!
Twelve
We touch down in Chicago in the purple of dusk, and a heavy melancholy settles over me. It’s that end-of-vacation feeling that hangs like a wet velvet cape over my shoulders—I felt it at the end of every summer growing up when it came time to trade crackling bonfire nights at the Outpost for the weight of real life and responsibilities. Back then, it was school, homework, and bass lessons; now it’s studio shifts and dishes—and actually texting my mother back.
Between Chrissy’s pink, peeling skin and Gin’s emergency haircut, it’s clear we’ve been changed by our two nights in Palm Springs; the I Do Crew is a ragged bunch, plodding through the airport without saying much. Even Renee seems a little sick of her own logistics when, at baggage claim, she asks me about expenses, yammering about whether I want to submit a receipt for the Ubers and Lagoon 42 and…I short-circuit. Nothing but static between my ears. I don’t have the brain waves to direct toward this.
“I’ll cover those.” I wave Renee off. “Consider it a gift.”
Her lips twitch. “But you said your studio job is unpaid and that—”
“Renee,” I warn. “It’s a gift. And if you make me think about numbers right now, I’m going to explode.”
We can already hear Rishi idling outside in the pickup lane, paying homage to our weekend by blaring Snoop Dogg’s “Gin and Juice” at max volume. Tired as she is, it gets a laugh out of his fiancée, who distributes hugs goodbye. Chrissy follows her out to catch an Uber, and Renee turns to me with a hopeful half-smile. “Any chance of me getting a ride?”
There would be, if there weren’t a prickly and persistent tug in my chest that needed addressing. I don’t want to feel all the hard feelings that I know come with going back to Mom’s house, but I don’t want to feel this guilt either. It has to be one or the other. I adjust my grip on the handle of my suitcase, scanning the sterile airport for a sign to point me in the right direction.
“I’m sorry,” I sigh out, deciding.
