She huffs a small, sad laugh. Not aha ha, that’s so funnylaugh, but aha ha, my life is pitifullaugh. Her voice stalls between a whisper and a whimper when she says, “Remember how I was late to the engagement party?”
No.
“I had to go in to clean out my desk.”
No no no.
We’re both silent as I try to strong-arm the truth into making sense. This is Renee Roberts. Renowned overachiever and vision board manifester. Executor of the five-year plan. From the moment I met her, I understood Renee as a woman who tied a leash around her life and taught it to heel. And it did. It worked. She has become what she said she would become, done exactly what she set out to do.
And still had it all fall apart.
I pinch the spiky leaf of an aloe plant, trying to sort out the scramble of emotions in my chest. I’m sad for her. Confused for me. And I’m angry. She’s been lying for weeks.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Whatever Renee is choking back doesn’t go down easy. Her eyes pinch at the corners, damming back tears. I see how much this confession is costing her, and my anger ebbs back a bit. When Renee finally speaks, her voice is frail, each word limping out after the next.
“What was I supposed to do? Waltz into my friend’s engagement dinner and say,Hi, hello, I’d love to be a bridesmaid, but by the way, I just got laid off?” Renee shoves to her feet and begins to pace, and my eyes track with her, back and forth, the tarp crunching beneath her feet. “I couldn’t make it about me like that. And thenyou.” She swivels toward me, and my throat burns. “Gin told meyou were going to be there, and I thought,Oh, here’s this drunk asshole that weaseled her way back into my friend’s life—”
Ouch.But fair. And it’s not like I was thrilled to see her, either.
“—but then you’re not,” Renee goes on. “You’re not that person at all. You’re working for this prestigious recording studio—”
“For free,” I remind her. “Unpaid.”
“And here I am, a failed actor and now a failed event planner, too—”
“You haven’t failed at either of those things. You’re just not doing them anymore.”
“Then what am I doing?” Renee spreads her arms wide like a pterodactyl flapping its wings. “I’m a planner. I plan things. I planned my whole stupid life, and I did exactly what I said I was going to do. I got an MBA. I got the dream job, and I still ended up flat on my ass. Meanwhile, you get to do the musician thing and barely even worry about money.”
And the anger’s back, surging through me like an electrical charge. “Because my dad died?” I cry out. “Sorry, do you wanna trade?”
“No, that’s—” Renee slows to a halt. Her blue eyes flash with regret, and she draws in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. Let me just…” She lowers herself back to the tarp, kneeling in front of me and sitting back on her heels.
“I know you didn’t get as much money from your dad as you expected,” she says. “But you’ve always had money from your parents. Even before you lost your dad. Right?”
I bite my cheek. “Sort of.”
“They paid your half of the rent when you lived with Gin, right?”
“Well, yeah.”
“And your groceries? And utilities? Did you ever have to pay for your own—”
“Okay, I get your point. I had an enormous safety net while I was touring with Cold Sweat.”
Renee prods gently, but she prods all the same. “And how did you pay for those tours when you were just getting started? For the van rentals and the gas?”
A fresh shot of anger seeps through me, but she’s not wrong. Cold Sweat wouldn’t have taken off if not for the money Dad put into it. “That’s true,” I admit. “You’re right.”
Renee’s lips tug into a sad sliver of a smile as she presses both her palms to my knees, making my skin buzz.
“It was so easy to hate you,” Renee says, “when you were Gin’s mean, drunk girlfriend living her dream on her parents’ dime. It was so easy to resent you. And I’ll be honest.” Her grip tightens, heat shooting up my thighs. “I’m still jealous of you. I wish that I wasn’t, but I am. You can afford to pick up the check on a bachelorette trip. You park at the airport even though it’s literally so expensive. You can do what you love for no money and still afford to live in the neighborhood I’m getting priced out of. But you…it’s different now.” She blinks, and a soft sparkle returns to her eyes. “You’re different. You’re sober. You’re…I like you. I didn’t expect it. You—” She pauses, then adds, “You’ve become such a good friend.”
It takes every ounce of concentration not to flinch away. A good friend. Right. That’s what I am.
“My heart breaks for you and everything you’ve been through,” Renee says, “and I wouldn’t trade places with you in a million years. But I’m still jealous of you, Alice. I wish I could pursue my dreams the way you get to.”
