“I don’t know, Charlie. I’m just taking it one day at a time and trying not to pee myself ten times a day. Can we turn up the music now?”
“It was really hard to tell my parents, you know, about me and Tristan. They didn’t understand at first. By the way, you have no idea how hard the ‘We’re not mad, just disappointed’ hits when you’re thirty. Yeesh.” Charlie was wiping away a hint of moisture from her eyes. “I just always wanted to make them proud, you know? I really wish your mom could see you now.”
First of all, Wren doubted it. But second, no, she was not going to allow this. She didn’t need some kind of catharsis right now, to be sobbing in the car as a lifetime of trauma leaked out of her. She needed to buy a bassinet, she needed to finish the bucket list, and, now that she’d put the thought out there, she actually kind of needed to pee. She didn’t know the genesis of this line of questioning, but for as stubborn as she knew Charlie was, there was nobody who was capable of tearing down her emotional walls when she committed to building them up full strength. Nobody.
“If only Mom had worn a seat belt…” Wren said, trailing off and shaking her head for effect.
“Wren…Jesus. I can’t with you.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Forget it,” Charlie huffed, seeming genuinely annoyed. Even hurt. But come on. Charlie knew how Wren operated. The dark humor and sarcasm shouldn’t have come as some big surprise.
They pulled into the Target parking lot. Wren was beyond eager to escape the confines of the car and this emotionally loaded pseudo intervention. She was eager to walk the store and goof around with her best friend. Like the old days, when they’d play all the demos on the Nintendo Switch in the electronics section or move a bunch of the cat and dog toys into the kids’ area.
“You ready?” Wren asked as Charlie threw the car in park.
“Yeah, actually.” Charlie cleared her throat. “It’s later than I thought and I really should get back to Tristan. He’s cooking sea bass for dinner and he’s, like, obnoxiously excited about it.”
“Oh.”
“Do you mind calling Arthur for a ride? Or I can drop you off.”
A lump formed in Wren’s throat. They weren’t far from the apartment, and Arthur was definitely home. (Where else would he be, parasailing?) That wasn’t the issue. “So you’re not coming in?”
“Well…” Charlie was reconsidering. “I should get Tristan his Perrier real quick. It’s on sale and he’ll want it with dinner. Oh, and his nighttime moisturizer. But I’ll stay out of your hair.”
She didn’t want Charlie out of her hair. She wanted her allup in it, hopelessly tangled like a knot from swimming in the ocean.
“Besides,” Charlie said, as they both stepped stiffly out into the parking lot, “picking out a bassinet is really a you and Arthur thing. But I’ll see ya around.”
Wren began walking toward one of the entrances, where she knew behind those automatic doors lay a rack of candles, the customer service desk, and the baby stuff. But Charlie bee-lined for the other one all the way on the other side of the building—groceries, pharmacy, toiletries. There was a very brief moment where they walked toward the store together, and for a second things didn’t feel so weird. But it quickly became clear they were moving at different cadences, their bodies slowly drifting in different directions. Quickly, Charlie peeled away with one more stammering “Bye!” and before Wren knew it, her friend was just another blond-haired, yoga-pant-wearing body disappearing into those hungry, looming doors.
8
Wren:Go Skydiving
After nearly an hour’s drivesouth toward the airport, they were almost there, the cramped lanes of I-295 giving way to smaller roads; not quite rural, not quite industrial. Airporty. That was the only way to describe it.
“This is pointless. I know what they’re going to say,” Arthur said, pressing his foot to the gas pedal so begrudgingly it was a miracle they were moving at all.
“If you don’t quit complaining, we’re going to need to start talking about consequences.”
“Consequences?”
Wren was getting annoyed at Arthur’s incessant pessimism. She knew what Google would say, but there was no harm in asking, just in case they got a lenient instructor who might be willing to let a few things slide. She’d even sign a special waiver promising not to sue, if she had to. Come to think of it, she wasn’t so sure a lenient skydiving instructor who wasn’t super concerned with doing things by the book would be a good idea. But this is why nothing good ever came of thinking before doing.
She needed something to shut him up.
“I propose that if we refuse to do something we pull from the bucket list—or if one of us is overly naggy about it—that we give up our naming rights.”
“For the baby?!”
“No, for your penis. Of course the baby.”
“Absolutely not, that’s crazy. Besides, we’ve never talked names. How do you know we won’t just agree?”
She smirked. “You won’t agree with mine.”
