“I’m at the Bhats’ house,” Gin reminds us. “So it’ll take me a little over an hour to—”
“No, no. Stay put, girlina,” Chrissy cuts her off. “I’m having a bottle of chardonnay and some very powerful gummies delivered. We’ll FaceTime you in. Your bridesmaids have got this.”
Thus begins this summer’s second Bridesmaid Summit.
As my complete lack of luck would have it, Renee and I arrive at Chrissy’s place at the same time. Just the sight of her splits medown the middle, half joy, half heartache. Like two songs—one major and one minor—playing at the same time, both at full blast. To the world, she looks put together in a red tank top, denim shorts, and all her usual jewelry, but I know her. Renee would never wear her glasses outside the apartment, but there they are, perched on her nose. When she tucks her hair back, I notice she’s missing some of her rings. Anyone else might mistake her for okay, but I know better.
“Hi,” I squeak out, but Renee won’t even give me that. She faces ahead, jaw tense, with her chin lifted as she punches in the gate code. In her other hand, she grips a brown grease-stained takeout bag, and the smell of something deep fried makes my stomach audibly rumble.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Haven’t eaten much the last two days.”
There’s a pause. Then a barely audible “Me neither,” just as the gate buzzes open.
We set up our war room in Chrissy’s “office”—laptops, pens, notebooks, sticky notes; a clean slate of a whiteboard, a fresh pot of coffee; and the three largest mugs I’ve ever seen. Renee packed a printed-out stack of every text or email Gin has sent about the wedding for the last three months, a copy of the completed shopping list, and the crinkly brown takeout bag, revealed to contain three orders of cheese fries.
“It’s giving college cram session.” Chrissy giggles as she fills and distributes the enormous mugs of coffee. Even in a crisis, she’s like this—bubbly and eager—but when Renee steps up to the whiteboard, Chrissy’s tone turns shockingly serious. “Shouldn’t Alice take the lead on this?”
I whip my head around so fast, my neck spasms. “What?”
“It’s your house, Ali Pal. Or…your dad’s band’s house or whatever,” Chrissy says.
“But I’m the event planner,” Renee reminds us, voice stern.
“But you don’t know Galena and the Outpost like Alice does,” Chrissy points out. “So I think Alice should be the one to write on the whiteboard.”
Renee’s jaw grinds and ticks, and her eyes flash to mine for one burning second. I sizzle like a helpless ant beneath her magnifying stare. “Alice,” Renee hisses, “is unreliable.” She yanks her gaze away, pinning it on Chrissy. “Alice is hot and cold. She’ll act like she’s going to write on the whiteboard, like she really, really wants to write on the whiteboard, but then once she does, she’ll shut us out and make us feel stupid for trusting her with the marker.”
“You can trust me with the marker!” I blurt out. “I can write on the whiteboard! I just—” And that’s when my voice fails me. Again.
“Weknowyou can write on the whiteboard,” Chrissy says in full sincerity, talking only about the whiteboard. Nothing else. Regardless of what this is really about, Chrissy’s bright, expectant smile wears on Renee. She begrudgingly sets down the dry-erase marker and, without so much as looking at me, deflates into what used to be my seat. I take Renee’s place as Chrissy slots her phone into one of her many tripods and announces, “Please hold, everyone! I’m getting Gin and Rishi on FaceTime.”
It goes better than I expect, although I’m no Renee Roberts when it comes to making a plan. I have no survey to reference, no existing wedding plan from last year we might recycle for efficiency’s sake. But I know the spreadsheet. I know the Outpost. And I know Gin. The rest I make up as I go. We’re at it well intothe night—planning, replanning, pivoting every single detail while slowly dropping like flies. Gin falls asleep first, cheek pressed directly into her in-laws’ kitchen table while Rishi stays with us on FaceTime. Chrissy’s snoring starts up around midnight, but she’s in and out of sleep until about two o’clock.
“Stay as late as you want,” she says, talking through a yawn before finally shuffling off to bed, and Rishi calls it a night shortly thereafter. He thanks us profusely, and when he ends the call, I decide not to notice that Renee and I are alone. I’m not feeling it, because that’s not what’s happening, so far as I’m concerned. I face the whiteboard with intense focus. There is no one behind me. Certainly no one I’ve been harboring a crush on all summer. Certainly no one I had mind-blowing, reality-bending sex with. Whatever I might feel in that situation—the way my heart might press against my spine, trying to work its way back to her—I’m not feeling it. Because as far as the whiteboard and I are concerned, there is nothing other than the wedding.
“So we’ll cancel the tent rental but keep an eye on the weather,” I mumble to myself. “We can find a rental place closer to Galena and see if they have anything available, just in case…”
The takeout bag crumples behind me, and it feels like my blood is flowing in Renee’s direction, begging me to turn around. The writing on the whiteboard blurs and drips the longer I stare at it, but I brace my core and reset my focus.The wedding. Only the wedding right now.
“The Mediterranean restaurant won’t deliver outside of a twenty-five-mile radius, so we’ll need to find another catering option.”
I don’t want to find another catering option, my thoughts butt in.I want Renee. I have this urge to spill my heart like a jar of loose change, but I’m afraid of what all will come out. I need time to sort through it all first. If I say something now, it’ll surely be the wrong thing, and I’ll make things worse than they already are. With the wedding in crisis and only a week away, now is not the time, even if I did know what to say.
I review the remainder of my chicken scratch notes, checking the last few mental boxes of our brand-new plan. “I think all we’re missing is…”
“Permission to use the Outpost,” Renee finishes behind me in a cold, unfeeling voice.
My heart rams full force into the brick wall of my chest.Right.The single most integral piece of this puzzle, the piece everything else depends on, is a bit of logistics only I can do. I need to talk to my mother. I need to talk to Renee. But the wedding relies on only one of those conversations. I’m not ready for either.
I scratch my thumbnail over the stiff skin on my fingertips.This is what it takes, I think. It has to hurt at first. That’s how you build up the callus.
“I’ll talk to Mom tomorrow,” I say.
Twenty-two
In lieu of talking to my mother, I do literally anything else. I clean my oven. I steam my bridesmaid dress. I check my tire pressure and get legitimately upset when not one tire needs to be refilled. I toss my tire pressure gauge back into the glove compartment, where it will remain until the next difficult conversation that needs to be postponed. Every minute of stalling is one minute closer to Gin and Rishi’s big day, the likes of which is riding on my ability to have an honest, vulnerable conversation with my mother. The type of conversation I know needs to happen in person. I need to go back to the house.
Luckily, there are many more extremely important and time-sensitive things to do this Sunday morning. I tweeze my eyebrows. I make the chicken thing fromThe New York Times. After lunch, I carefully vet every item of clothing in my closet, trying to determine the right uniform for apologizing. I decide on a sleeveless jumpsuit, the only bit of red in my wardrobe, like I’m borrowing a bit of Renee’s confidence. Had this gone down just a few days sooner, Renee likely would’ve come with me today. I can picture her beside me, pinkie looped into mine, but I crumple the image and tuck it away.Focus, Alice. One thing at a time.
