“We actually broke up, like, a week after this was taken.” Renee turns to me sheepishly and adds, “I should have done it way sooner.”
“Sounds like a story.”
She shrugs. “Not really. He was a good guy. We lived together and everything, but I…” Renee trails off, and I watch her eyes shift in and out of focus, like she’s deciding how much of the picture to show me. “We met while working on a show together,” she finally says. “The very first rehearsal, there was this spark, and we were inseparable. But then, six months later, when we wrapped the show…we didn’t have anything in common anymore.”
“So you…moved in together?”
“Brilliant, right? But he had a gorgeous condo by the lake, and I thought maybe we were just going through a phase, so when he gave me a key at our one-year anniversary dinner…” She shakes her head. “Not my best decision.”
“And yet he still made the wall,” I point out.
She nods and takes a long sip from her mug. “He’s a good guy,” she says. “Just not my person. We’re still friends. At least friendly. I’m hoping we’ll be like you and Gin someday.”
With that, Renee wanders back toward the kitchen, her hips swaying with every step. Tiny flashes of her red shorts peek out and disappear again beneath the hem of her oversize shirt. It’s hypnotic, and even when I pull my eyes away, they’re pulled right back by the words—
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Renee smacks her phone on the counter, tossing her hands like a disgruntled sports fan. “The maang tikka doesn’t work with the bangs.”
“Come again?”
She groans into her hands and grumbles, “Check the group chat.”
When I do, I find two new texts from Gin—two pictures of her trying on the wedding jewelry that’s been passed through generations of Bhat women. She models two variations with her new haircut, neither of which are great. The gold pendant that’s meant to rest on her forehead either disappears behind her bangs or completely disrupts them in a way that looks, for lack of a better word, stupid.
I laugh through my nose, but Renee isn’t amused. Her face scrunches as she pulls her phone close, fingers swiping diligently for solutions. “It’s okay,” she mutters. “We can fix this.”
“What is there to fix?”
Her swiping is audible now, almost aggressive, as though pressing harder will equate to searching harder. “There has to be a better way to style these bangs, right?”
“She could pin them back,” I suggest. “But the wedding is two months away. Her bangs will grow.”
Renee rips her gaze from her phone and pins it to me. “What if they don’t grow enough?”
“Then we’ll cancel the wedding,” I say.
“What?!”
“I’m kidding! Shit, Renee. It’s not that deep. Gin’s not even asking for solutions, is she?” I swipe up in the text thread and flip my phone to show the evidence. “Look. She’s just asking which option we liked better. She’s not asking for help.”
Renee mushes her lips, slowly shaking her head. “I don’t know, Alice. I’m just worried.” Her tongue wets her bottom lip, and it’s like windshield wipers for my brain.What were we talking about again?
“Did you see that list on Gin’s phone?” Renee asks, and I resettle into the conversation.
“I did.”
“It’s a mess,” Renee says. “That’s not how you plan a wedding, Alice. They need help.”
I draw in a breath, and my shoulders come with it, but my lips stay pressed in a firm, unwavering line. I, too, have my concerns about Gin’s lack of a proper wedding plan, but this is Gin Bennett we’re talking about. Bringer of lasagnas. Forgiver of dumb, drunk mistakes. Maybe I’m giving her too much grace, but it’s only because she’s done the same for me.
“She’s trying her best,” I finally say. “And correct me if I’m wrong—you know I’m a rookie—but it’s not our job as bridesmaids to plan the wedding for her, is it? Aren’t we just supposed to support her and do whatever she asks us to do?”
Renee frowns, considering. She taps out a rhythm on the counter, her rings clanging against the granite. “Well, Gin did ask for my help on that list.”
“She did,” I agree. “And maybe you can encourage her to be a little more specific with her asks so we know exactly how to help.”
Renee nods and returns to her phone, visibly calmer. “I think I’ll send her that checklist from Kyra’s wedding. And Aubrey had that amazing spreadsheet.”
