My memory whirls back to our conversation at the diner, how Renee assumed my shift to studio work had been a financial decision. I know it’s a privilege to do what I love, but I’ve hardly considered how the alternative might feel. Had I been born into a different family with average finances, I’d be just like Renee—putting my passions second to survival, and even then, it’s all come undone for her. The thought rots in the pit of my stomach. It can’t feel like living so much as staying alive.
My hand moves without my permission, brushing back an errant blond strand, my touch lingering on her neck. “It’s not fair,” I breathe out.
“Nothing is fair,” Renee says. “It’s not fair that I lost my job or that you were born into money and I wasn’t. It’s not fair that your dad died so young. None of it’s fair. But I’m still trying.” A hint of a smile twitches on her lips. “That’s actually why I had to tell you now. That’s why I was late. I just got an email from the Philharmonic that I’m in the final round for a job on their events team. I was so excited, and right away I thought,I can’t wait to tell Alice.”
A floaty feeling rises in me. “Really?”
“Yes.” Her eyes sparkle like sapphires, and I wish she’d always look at me this way. Like I’m made of pure gold. There are goose bumps on my soul. “But then I knew I had to come clean about my last job and…I’m so sorry, Alice. I should have told you sooner, but I haven’t really told anybody. You’ve shared so much with me about your dad and The Handful and what’s happening with your mom…I couldn’t lie to you anymore. I want to be honest with you the way you’re honest with me.”
“Always,” I whisper, laying my hands over hers. “I will always be honest with you, Renee.”
But not with myself. I will lie to myself for as long as I have to, just to keep things exactly like this. When my routine bends around thrift store trips with Renee and late nights at my place lettering place cards, I tell myself Renee and I are just getting closer, like Gin hoped. We’retrying. This, I tell myself, is what good bridesmaids do. They cuddle up beneath the good blanket while practicing job interview questions or workshopping wedding speech ideas. They’re in constant communication, like one long conversation interrupted only by sleep and studio shifts. They’re together nearly every day—for wedding prep purposes at first, but with time, it becomes an assumption. Cooking for two and mornings at Grounds Crew. It all becomes part of my routine. Because we’re friends. Renee said it herself, so I have no choice but to believe it.
Sixteen
With the number of hours Renee and I put into prepping for the Philharmonic interview, I’m not surprised to hear it was a rousing success. She calls me the moment she steps out of the office, and I can hear in her voice how wide she’s smiling. There’s no offer on the table yet, but the hiring team adored her. They all but told her she had the job. That alone is cause for a celebratory dinner.
It’s a Friday night in late July, and Renee sits on the edge of my kitchen counter, swinging her feet and filling me in on interview details while I slice red peppers for fajitas. I planned the meal around her favorite color, complete with bright-red fruit punch and a cherry pie for dessert.
“The Philharmonic said I’ll hear back early next week,” Renee says, but there’s mischief in the slant of her smile. She reaches for her phone, and something flashes behind her eyes. “But there’salsoa job at a theater in the suburbs, and I’m extremely qualified.”
The peppers hiss and sizzle as I slide them into the cast iron, and I adjust the heat while Renee reads the job listing aloud. I’ve almost forgotten what it was like to cook without Renee keeping me company like this. Moments like these feel so natural, so correct.
Renee doesn’t linger on the details of the administrative job; instead, she skips ahead to what really interests her: the theater’s lineup of shows for the season.
“We’ve gotCome from Away,White Christmas…” She gasps through her nose. “They’re doingGreasethis fall! That’s certainly a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
“That I’m meant to have this job,” she says plainly. Like it’s obvious.
I don’t do the woo-woo stuff, but the certainty in Renee’s voice, the hope turned tangible by the appearance of a very common musical in this theater’s season, almost makes me believe it, too. I nudge the peppers around the pan and ask, “So what’s the deal withGrease?”
“Greasewas the show that got me hooked on theater,” she explains. “Dad showed me the movie as a kid, and I just never let it go.”
“Is your dad a theater guy?”
“He’s a welding engineer for a heavy-machinery company back in Iowa,” Renee says. “So…no. But I was hooked, so Dad pulled out the park district catalog and let me pick out all the dance classes and theater camps I wanted to take.”
“I’m not sure that I’ve seenGrease,” I admit, and when Renee insists we watch it tonight, my groan of dissent is no match for the persuasive powers of her smile.
“You owe me.” I shake my kitchen spoon at her. “We’re watchingThe Princess Diariesnext time.”
“Only if you promise not to say all the lines.”
Both times we’ve tried to watch it, Renee devolved into a twitchy mess when I said every line several seconds before the actor did.
“If I’m not allowed to say the lines, then you’re not allowed to sing along toGrease.”
“Fine.” Renee folds her arms. “Say the lines. But don’t get mad if I don’t laugh at every joke when you’ve already spoiled it.”
“You’re a tyrant,” I tell her.
“You’re a menace,” she fires back, but the way she says it—the way we bicker now compared to the start of the summer—is wholly different. It feels less like a fight and more like we’re building to something.
“I think you’ll like Rizzo,” Renee decides as we settle into the couch, each of us cross-legged with a plate of fajitas in our lap. “You kind of remind me of Rizzo, actually,” she says.
“And who is Rizzo?”
