With that, she does a sharp quarter turn toward Chrissy, boxing me out, but I can still hear the smile in her voice as she says, “Andyou. It’s been forever, hasn’t it?”
“Two forevers, actually,” Chrissy teases. “Last I saw you, I believe we were dueting…Lady Gaga?”
“Close,” Renee says. “I wasdressedas Lady Gaga. We were dueting songs fromGrease.”
There’s an ache in my chest like a dull saw pulling across my lungs. Gin’s karaoke costume parties have been her birthday tradition since college, and given the damage I did at her twenty-fourth, I’m not surprised I wasn’t invited to her twenty-ninth, but it does nothing to quiet my anxiety, which won’t stop screaming at me that I don’t belong here.But you were invited, my better sense argues.You’re supposed to be here.So why do I feel like everything would be easier if I left?
“So Gin said you had a work thing today?” Chrissy asks, and Renee nods, her blond waves dipping down her back.
“Leave it to the Blomquist to need their events manager on a weekend.”
“The Blomquist Theater?” I wonder aloud.
Renee’s gaze shoots through the room, stopping just short of me. In a voice like artificial sweetener, she asks, “What other Blomquist is there?”
I swallow at least a dozen comebacks. I caused enough scenes in my day, and when Gin bounces her way back to us, I’m glad I kept my mouth shut.
“Sorry about that.” Gin reclaims her wineglass. “Ready to do presents? Make sure you sit next to the one with your name.” The three of us follow instructions, and Gin coyly adds, “You probably already know what these are.”
I blink down at the box. It can’t be what I think it is, can it? Chrissy and Renee seem to think it is, based on their matching smiles and jumpy eyebrows. I tug the bow loose and lift the lid to reveal a matte-black tumbler with my name printed on it in loopy iridescent letters. Beside it, a small cream notecard waits with a question that sucks the air from every corner of my lungs:Will you be my bridesmaid?
Chrissy is the first to her feet, her bracelets clanging like wind chimes as she dances toward the bride for a hug. “YES! A million times yes, duh!”
Renee’s response is more subtle. She closes her box gingerly and looks up at Gin with a smile and a nod, quiet and doe eyed and almost as moved as I am by the ask.
When Gin’s eyes land on mine, I slow my breaths, trying not to hurry this moment away. There’s too much to feel and not enough time to feel it. Joy. Pride. Disbelief. My best friend and undoubtedly the greatest person I know is getting married, and she’s chosenmeof all people to stand by her side. I’m completely humbled and completely shocked, but I know my line, and I say it proudly.
“Of course, Gin. It’d be my honor.”
That last word triggers something in Chrissy, who wags a pink manicured finger between me and Renee. “Wait. Who’s the maid of honor?”
“I don’t have a maid of honor.” Gin straightens, a proudclosed-lip smile lifting her cheeks till her freckles nearly kiss her eyelashes. “All three of you are so important to me, and you all have such specific skills and roles in my life, so I’m dividing up the duties.”
Chrissy nods along intently, and Renee reaches into her purse, producing a small red notebook and a pen that she poises dutifully over a fresh page. I pinch my brows together, trying to look equally attentive.
“Chrissy, I was hoping you could work with Mrs.Bhat on the bridal shower since you’re so connected throughout the city,” Gin says, and Renee scribbles along with her, taking diligent notes. “Renee, you’re the professional event planner, obviously, so I figured you could take the bachelorette party. And Alice.” Gin turns to me last, a warm glow flickering in her eyes. “Would you want to give a speech at the reception?”
A buzz scurries from my chest to my fingertips, and for the second time tonight, I’m worried I might cry. “Of course,” I choke out. “I would love to.”
We all pose for a picture with our bridesmaid presents—Renee and Chrissy each got customized wineglasses, and my chest aches with gratitude that Gin thought to give me something I’ll actually use. The four of us scrunch in for a selfie, and I strategically hold my cup in front of my chest to block some of the stain.
“Say Rishi!” Chrissy sings.
“Rishiiiiiiiiii,” we say in unison. It works just as well, if not better than, saying cheese.
“Oh-kay, sending this to everyone immediately.” Chrissy’s nails take off at a canter, clacking against her phone screen as she summons each of our contacts into a single text thread. She still hasmy number. That feels nice. “Oh my God, bridesmaid group chat!” Chrissy squeals. “Yay, it’s starting!”
“Yay!” I echo. If it sounds a little forced, it’s because it is. I’m excited to be Gin’s bridesmaid. Shocked, yes, but also so far over the moon that my soul is in orbit. Prior to dating and living together and eventually going no contact, Gin was my closest friend, and it’s such a privilege to be back in her life—not to mention her wedding. But even college Alice couldn’t match Chrissy’s energy without downing a few shots first. Now, sober and scooching toward thirty, trying to be young and fun feels like wearing a waterlogged sweatshirt.
Our bridesmaid selfie has a domino effect. Guests flock to the bride for photos, and Chrissy volunteers to play camerawoman, saddling me with Renee, who looks deeply annoyed that I’m here. Lucky for both of us, I’m about not to be.
“Well, I’ve gotta head out.” I tip my head toward the door. “I’m already late for dinner with my mom.”
The bow of Renee’s top lip twitches in distaste. “How like you,” she mutters, eyes somehow both icy and bored.
Just like that, I’m fuming. Were I not so desperate to eject myself from this conversation, I would point out thatshewas the one late to the engagement party. But that’s not me anymore. I reach for my keys only to realize—again—that Gin has my pants and everything in the pockets.
“Gin?” I interrupt from a distance. “Do you have my keys?”
