Friends from Home

by Lauryn Chamberlain

  “When you guys texted me about getting the test, I thought it was kind of a joke,” she said quietly. “You know, like how I always used to freak out in college. Holy shit. I’m so sorry.”

  “Holy shit,” Dana echoed. “You never said anything, so I thought everything was fine. You’re serious?”

  “Nah, just wanted to see if you’d freak out. Yes, I’m serious. But I’m okay now. I just wish it hadn’t happened. Obviously.”

  “Well, no kidding.”

  “I’m glad you guys are here.” I squeezed Ritchie tight and then sat up to compose myself. “I have an appointment scheduled next week. And I was wondering if, well, if one of you would pick me up.”

  “Of course,” Ritchie said quickly.

  I looked at Dana. She didn’t say anything, but the way she raised her eyebrows asked, “Not Mark?” When she finally met my gaze, I answered her question, and I knew she knew. “Yeah, Mark and I are . . . taking some time. Or broken up. Or I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Ritchie asked. “Because we can, but you so don’t have to.”

  “Yeah I . . . right now, I just really don’t have that much to say. That’s weird, right? The status of me and Mark is literally the last thing on my mind.”

  “No questions asked,” Dana confirmed, getting up to pour a mimosa. “And I can pick you up. I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks, D.”

  “Hey, we’ll make a day of it! I’ll take you back to my place, and we’ll watch movies, and I’ll paint your nails if you want. I know you can’t do it yourself. And you hate pedicures.”

  “I really do. It’s the—”

  “Foot-pumice thing. I know. You weirdo.”

  “Dana,” Ritchie scolded, but she was laughing. “This is serious.”

  Dana sat back down next to us and looked me in the eyes. “I know that. But this doesn’t have to be, like, a big, terrifying thing. I don’t want to make you feel that way.”

  “Thank you.” I pulled them both in for one more hug. I didn’t know what to add to my thank-you, because I just felt so much. Thank you for being there, certainly. For not acting shocked, for not asking questions that forced me to justify myself. I knew those questions would always be there—from the world at large, from a voice inside myself. The internal questions I would have to answer; that voice I would have to square with. But to not have to do so with my best friends felt like a blessing.

  “So,” I said. “Bagels?”

  “Bagels,” Ritchie said.

  We walked into the kitchen, and I added, “Oh, and I haven’t even told you guys the craziest part yet.”

  “That’s not the craziest part?”

  “My appointment is next week. And guess what’s before that? Michelle’s bachelorette party.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The ritual of a bachelorette party seemed both archaic and uniquely of the Instagram era. The practice of celebrating the end of a woman’s single days like the end of her individual freedom? Outdated. The $110 swimsuits printed with bride and bride tribe, to be worn only for a photo shoot at the hotel rooftop hot tub? Certainly our mothers hadn’t contended with that. What would you have done with the nearly naked photos, put all fifty of the pictures in a coffee table album like your own personal Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition?

  The details of the trip had been decided over an e-mail thread so long and so inefficient that we might as well have communicated by sending letters via USPS. Michelle had pushed for the swimsuits so that we could all wear them in the hotel hot tub; Darcy had complained to the rest of us in a separate thread that she wasn’t “bikini ready” after giving birth to Emma some months earlier and called Michelle “uptight and controlling.” This all reached a climax as Ellen, in an attempt to smooth things over by confirming that the custom swimsuits would be one-pieces and Darcy could wear a sarong, accidentally forwarded the entire trash-talk thread back to Michelle. Michelle responded coolly with “order swimsuits via this link—matching shorts or sarongs are fine xo,” but then e-mailed me alone with a command to “get control of this situation.” As maid of honor, I was responsible for quashing the infighting. And so the final communication had been as follows:

  Hi, all,

  I know everyone has been so busy, so I wanted to consolidate all of the information into one e-mail so we’re ready to go.

  Please order matching swimsuits via this link and bring your honky-tonk best for Friday night out in downtown Nashville. From Michelle: As long as you’re in theme, no rules—other than no white! I’ve also made a reservation for Saturday bottomless brunch at Sinema.

  My flight gets in at 3 p.m. on Friday, and the rest of you can park at the hotel for $25 per night. Michelle and I will work out all other reservations and itineraries, so nothing for you to do there.

  Any other questions, let me know.

  Jules xo

  It felt like a work e-mail aimed at the interns, if there existed a company whose sole business was issuing attire commands to white women in their twenties. I hated myself a little bit for the xo, but as of one week before the trip, no one had followed up with other questions, so I had to count it as a success. I called Michelle that night after work and got her voice mail; I felt a flash of disappointment and then thought it was probably for the best, because I didn’t even know what I was calling her to say. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—have the conversation with her I had had with Dana and Ritchie, something I seemed to both long for and fear. Best to avoid it.

  She called me back at three p.m. the next day, and I only saw the missed call after an hour-long edit meeting. Michelle always called in the afternoons now, and it took two or three attempts on both of our parts to actually connect. It didn’t matter. I would see her face-to-face in six days. For better or for worse.

  * * *

  • • •

  I slept for the entire flight to Nashville. As soon as we pushed back from the gate I put on my noise-canceling headphones and hit shuffle on a Zac Brown Band playlist Michelle had shared with us via text to “set the mood” for Nashville. But not even blaring country music could keep me up; the past few weeks had taken all my energy.

  “You make loving you easy,” the band sang. I caught myself thinking about Mark, even though I had never been the type to listen to songs and daydream about our relationship. I hit next, and “Chicken Fried” came on. Better. I drifted off and didn’t wake up until the wheels hit the runway.

  Once at the hotel, I struggled to haul my overstuffed suitcase down the hall, which was filled with the outfits designed to meet the aforementioned dress code, as well as bride-themed gifts for Michelle. The first night: coordinating “honky-tonk best,” with Michelle all in white and a tank top proclaiming i’m the bride! plus of course one of her many pairs of custom cowboy boots.

  I scanned my key to unlock the door of the suite Michelle and I would be sharing, but she heard me and swung the door open before I could even turn the handle. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into the room.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, resting her forehead on my shoulder, and I pulled her into a hug without even thinking. It felt so good to let myself fall back into the past, into those moments when a hug from Michelle or Marcia seemed like it might have the power to fix everything.

  “It’s good to see you,” I said.

  “Well, good, because I really need you. Darcy and Jen’s only job was to finalize today’s itinerary for before you got here, but they didn’t plan anything until tonight, so the afternoon is just open. And everyone is already on my nerves.”

  I realized as soon as she said this that I had been hoping her relief at seeing me was for a different reason. Embarrassed at how much I had wanted her to say something sentimental, I took a deep breath and tried to pull myself together. I wanted to pretend that the last several months hadn’t happened, that
things hadn’t changed. But they had.

  I took Michelle’s hand and pulled her to sit down next to me on the edge of the bed. “Okay, well, we’ll come up with something fun.” I felt a sheen of sweat on my forehead and a weird, sickly feeling in the back of my throat. I wondered if it could be from the pregnancy, but I pushed the thought away. “Anyway, don’t worry.”

  “Right, you’re right.”

  I checked my phone. It was only three thirty. “I’ll go put on makeup, and then we can get a drink on the roof before everything starts. Afternoon happy hour. My treat.”

  “I put toiletries and dry shampoo in the bathroom if you want to fix your hair. There’s a comb, too.”

  A classic Michelle hint that my hair needed teasing, a suggestion she’d been making since high school to try to give me her preferred form of “volume.” How could a comment be so annoying and comfortably reassuring at the same time?

  I stood up, and she smiled at me. “We’ll have fun tonight, right?”

  “Of course,” I told her. I still felt queasy, but I said nothing. I filled a glass of water in the bathroom and chugged it down.

  * * *

  • • •

  Michelle’s bachelorette party was my second. I had been invited to Dana’s older sister Jane’s party in Atlantic City the year before, but mostly as a favor to Dana; all the other bridesmaids were in their thirties. That party was almost sort of faux ironic, involving penis-shaped whistles and strippers that were Jersey Shore through and through—something Michelle would have loved after a few minutes of feigned embarrassment—but it definitely wasn’t something that Jen and Sylvie would appreciate.

  When we headed back down to the suite after a drink at the upstairs restaurant to pregame a honky-tonk bar with the other bridesmaids, I realized that the two bachelorette parties had at least one tradition in common: the games.

  “Okay,” Darcy announced after we were all seated on the floor in a circle around the suite’s glass coffee table. “Julie did what she could with the planning, but y’all know she’s never had a bachelorette party—so I couldn’t resist bringing some of my own games. Grab your drinks, ladies—we’re going to see how well Michelle knows Jake!”

  I remembered the concept from Jane’s party. One bridesmaid had a list of questions about the groom—“What’s his favorite beer?”—along with all his answers. If Michelle guessed his answer correctly, we drank. If she got it wrong, she did.

  Everyone squealed in delight. “Let’s see how well our bride really knows her groom, y’all!” Jen crowed.

  Wherever Jake was for his bachelor party, I doubted that he was doing anything similar. I poured myself a glass of champagne and then topped off Michelle’s, forcing a smile. “You’ve got this,” I told her. Today is not about you, the voice in my head chided.

  “Y’all are gonna be wasted by the end of this,” she taunted.

  “You’re on,” Sylvie said.

  Michelle, as usual, was right. She flew through the first set of questions, to the point where I started taking fake sips out of my glass. She got stumped on only one question: What was Jake’s favorite band growing up?

  “Allman Brothers,” Michelle replied confidently. “This is too easy.”

  “Got you at last!” Darcy laughed. “Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.”

  “No way! I know he told me that before.”

  “Not what he said here—sorry, sweetie.” Darcy shrugged while Jen started to chant, “Drink! Driiiink,” sounding pretty drunk herself. It’s not a frat party, Jen.

  Michelle looked over at the answer sheet. “Well, I guess y’all were bound to fool me once.” She smiled sweetly, made subtle but commanding eye contact with Darcy, and finally took a substantial gulp of Veuve.

  “That’s my girl.” I clapped. Michelle had always been able to outdrink me in high school, and even when she was drunker than me, she had always been able to hide it better. Caught drinking once by her parents, I got red-faced and flushed, giving myself away by being too indignant. Michelle just smiled and kept her mouth shut, knowing, as always, how to avoid revealing too much.

  “You’re still killing us, Miche,” I said. “But thanks. I need a break from drinking every turn.” Already I felt tipsy and too hot. I put my glass down. I had promised myself I wouldn’t go overboard—for a lot of reasons, not least of which was that I was afraid I might get too drunk and blow up Michelle’s whole bachelorette weekend by telling her what was really going on with me.

  “All right, y’all, we need to head to the bars in twenty minutes,” Ellen said, using her schoolteacher voice as she started the final third of her pregame playlist. “Finish your champagne and get ready.”

  The next song was an old Jo Dee Messina track. I remembered it from high school, and a wave of nostalgia swept over me. I sank into the couch and glanced around the room. Everyone had jumped up from their seats, and it seemed like they were moving in fast-forward as they drank and applied lipstick and posed for Instagram story selfies. The champagne sat too heavily in my stomach as they swirled around me dizzyingly.

  To my right, Michelle held up two skirts, one in each hand, looking for Jen to approve which one would replace her Lululemon leggings. Jen inspected them both seriously, while I focused on seriously not throwing up.

  “I need to be casual because we’re wearing the bride tanks, but still chic,” she was saying. “You know?”

  “The jean one,” Jen said. “Or, I don’t know, I like the ruffles on the other one.”

  Michelle contemplated them both for another full minute before settling on the jean skirt.

  At least shoes had already been decided upon. Everyone had been told to wear cowboy boots in keeping with the honky-tonk theme. Of course, everyone other than me had multiple pairs, worn for weekends in the fall to SEC football tailgates. I hadn’t been to one since I visited Michelle for an Auburn game early in our sophomore year of college. I had purchased a pair of ankle-height cowboy boots online for $30, the best sale price I could find.

  “Jules, those aren’t really cowboy boots, you know.” Michelle turned her attention to me, her voice sounding like an eye roll. “They should be higher. Like, midcalf. Those are just an ankle boot.”

  “Northerners, right?” Darcy said, and I heard laughter from around the room. “No offense, Julie.”

  I looked to my left. Ellen sat in a club chair with Darcy standing behind her, quickly curling her hair. Ellen polished off the rest of her champagne.

  “Darcy, you need a drink,” Sylvie called from across the room. “If you can use a curling iron without burning anyone, you’re too sober for the Stage.”

  Darcy raised her eyebrows and conspicuously filled her champagne glass with water from the carafe, and suddenly I knew what was about to happen. My queasiness amplified tenfold.

  “It’s a week early, so I wasn’t going to say anything publicly.” Darcy grinned, putting her hand on her stomach. “But I’m just drinking seltzer tonight. We’re pregnant again!”

  Ellen smiled happily, clearly having already known. Jen and Sylvie looked to Michelle for her reaction. And I closed my eyes, feeling like all the blood in my body had just rushed to my head.

  A beat passed before I forced myself to open my eyes. No one moved at first, but then a grin spread across Michelle’s face. “Oh, that’s just the best news! Congratulations! I’m so excited!”

  Apparently now free from worry that Michelle would be mad about Darcy stealing her thunder, Jen and Sylvie finally chorused, “Congratulations,” in response. But they hadn’t known Darcy for decades like Michelle, Ellen, Rebecca, and I had; I wanted to get up and say something, but my legs had turned into Jell-O. I felt trapped inside my own body.

  Michelle broke her hug with Darcy and turned toward me. “Julie?” She narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry, just feeling a litt
le sick,” I managed. “Darcy, congratulations.”

  Michelle sat down next to me and picked up the carafe from the coffee table. “Drink some water,” she said. “I guess we can’t all party like we used to!” Everyone laughed, and I downed two glasses while Darcy told the whole story: They hadn’t been trying, Emma was just seven months old, but she and Warren were over the moon and hoping for a boy.

  “Sometimes blessings just happen,” she crowed. “But that’s the last you’ll hear of it tonight, I swear. Michelle, we’re so excited for you.”

  Michelle beamed, and I croaked my agreement weakly.

  “So,” Darcy said. “Shots for the bride! I’ll pour.”

  Michelle looked at me. “Julie? You going to be okay?”

  I looked at Darcy, clearly blessed with whatever gene it is that makes pregnant women glow. Or maybe it was just genuine happiness; I could see it in her face, the joy shining out of her everywhere. Meanwhile, sweat was running down my arms and from the backs of my knees as I focused all my attention on trying not to throw up or cry. I wanted to climb out of my skin.

  Jen herded Ellen and Sylvie into formation for a group selfie stick picture. “Everyone, over here after the shots! Smile and say ‘Bride!’”

  “I’ll be fine,” I told Michelle as she jumped up to join the group.

  * * *

  • • •

  When we got to the first bar, Michelle started in on lecturing everyone about the scavenger hunt I had planned for her. Once again, it was Michelle all over—taking control of an activity that was supposed to be created for her so she could have fun. The scavenger hunt involved taking photos of a bunch of different actions: Michelle dancing with a member of the bar band, a member of the bridal party taking shots with a stranger, and so on. Michelle assigned us each a task. I got shots with a stranger, because Michelle decided I wasn’t drunk enough. I had only had two glasses of champagne, but it was clearly two too many. My body felt alien to me.