Friends from Home

by Lauryn Chamberlain

  “Michelle, please, something else,” I said weakly. “I can’t do shots right now.”

  “Come on, Julie. You’re being so boring right now,” she scolded. My stomach clenched again. Of course Michelle couldn’t understand why I was so stressed. I hadn’t told her anything. But it hurt that she seemed so eager to believe that I didn’t want to participate in her night, so unaware of everything I had done in order to be there.

  Then, perhaps sensing that she had been too harsh, she whispered in my ear, “You know Jen and Sylvie can’t take more shots. I mean, look at them.” We turned together and saw Jen trying to wrangle Sylvie with a pink feather boa, instead getting tangled up in it and tripping herself. Sylvie, oblivious, had her hand on the arm of a co-ed in a what happens on spring break stays on spring break! muscle T-shirt who looked like he couldn’t be older than twenty. Michelle and I winced in tandem as she squeezed his biceps.

  “Yeah, we might need to intervene over there.” I laughed. “Okay, I’ll take one shot.”

  As I turned and pushed my way to the bar, the sweat of strangers slicked my exposed arms. The shrieks of other bachelorette parties, dressed in coordinated outfits almost exactly like ours, rang in my ears. Everyone in the bar was a carbon copy of everyone else. Was this supposed to be fun? And if it was supposed to be fun, why did I feel so awful?

  “One shot of whiskey for me and . . .” I spotted a woman in a bride sash next to me and pulled her over. “And one for her.”

  “Wooooo!” the anonymous bride cried drunkenly, and I held a cool hand to my forehead. I didn’t know if the sickness was from pregnancy or some strange sense of ennui or just plain guilt and fear from the secret I was keeping, but my stomach roiled. I picked up my shot and turned back toward Michelle, who was holding out her phone.

  “Get ready to take that photo,” I called out halfheartedly, and then I raised the shot to my lips.

  It all happened at once. I squeezed my eyes shut and downed the shot, the camera flashed, my throat contracted, and I suddenly knew I was going to throw up. I dropped the shot glass on the bar and clapped a hand over my mouth, bolting away toward the bathroom as the bartender yelled, “Someone has to pay for those!” and Michelle called, “I hope that didn’t blur the photo!”

  I cut in front of the ten-deep bathroom line and I couldn’t open my mouth to apologize. I made it to the stall and then I vomited. My insides clenched as I heaved.

  When I finally made it back out to our table, I knew my eyeliner was wet and smudged, and if my face had been pale before, well—good thing it was dark in there. Michelle asked if I was okay, and I told her no.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I have to go home. I’m sick.”

  “From one shot?” Darcy—totally sober Darcy—sneered.

  “Oh no, babe.” Michelle tipsily slung an arm around my shoulders. “Remember when this happened at Mickey’s party junior year? Let’s just get you some water . . .”

  I thanked her, but I knew what she was getting at. I told her again that I was sorry, but water wouldn’t be enough. I had to go home. I would buy them all a round of drinks, and I would try to be better tomorrow, I promised.

  Michelle didn’t argue, but she looked at me coldly and crossed her arms. “If this is because you’re mad that I made you take that shot—”

  “What? It’s not.”

  She waited. Maybe for me to say I loved her, or to apologize again, but I couldn’t. I felt the presence of everything she didn’t know like it was right there in the bar, putting a wall between us. I didn’t have the energy to reach through it.

  She muttered something under her breath that I couldn’t make out. “Well,” she finally said. “Feel better, I guess.”

  “Have fun,” I said weakly. “Y’all.”

  I walked out into the street, mobbed with costumed performers and teenagers and drunken partiers. I sank into a cab and closed my eyes, unable to even think or care about Michelle, maybe for the first time. By midnight, I was back at the hotel, alone in bed with only my supposed best friend’s wrath for company.

  CHAPTER 21

  I woke up late the next morning to find myself alone in the room.

  I peeled back the too-heavy white duvet and stood up slowly, feeling less nauseated than the night before, but still weak from throwing up. I checked the bathroom to see if Michelle was there and found it empty, the counter pristine, her multiple mysterious “night routine” products nowhere in sight. She must have slept in another room. My stomach flipped.

  After pulling on my sweats and chugging a glass of water, I walked down the hall and knocked hesitantly on the door of Room 314. Darcy’s.

  I was afraid I’d find Darcy alone and have to hold an awkward pre-coffee conversation, but what I saw might have been worse. She swung open the door to reveal a party already in progress: A picked-over room service cart bisected the room, displaying wedding-diet approved foods like nonfat Greek yogurt and brûléed grapefruit. A cacophony of sound drowned out Darcy’s “Oh, hi” as Jen turned up the volume on a Carly Rae Jepsen song and Michelle popped a champagne cork for mimosas. Everyone was there. Other than me. I felt like the unpopular kid no one had bothered to wake at a sleepover.

  “Wait, let me open the champagne bottle again,” Michelle said, not registering my arrival. “I need someone to get an Insta story of it.”

  I drew in a breath and walked farther into the room. The exclusion stung, but what I felt more deeply surprised me: I realized that maybe I didn’t really want to be there. In high school, I would have run over to Michelle right away and whispered something funny in her ear. She would have grabbed my arm and laughed, not telling anyone else the joke, and I would have glowed at the proof that our unspoken bond remained intact. But now, even as I registered a flash of disappointment at what had happened, I had no desire to prove, as I usually did, that I was a closer friend to Michelle than Darcy was.

  Maybe I wasn’t.

  “Hey, y’all,” I offered. “Sorry I slept so late, but I’ll make up for it at brunch.”

  “Feeling better?” Michelle asked without looking up from the champagne bottle.

  “For the most part. Here, give me your phone. I’ll take the Insta story of you guys.” I didn’t care about being in it.

  I filmed as Michelle mimed popping the cork off the bottle of Perrier-Jouët, and the other girls crowded around her, clapping and laughing. They dropped the pose as soon as I finished, and Darcy instructed everyone to grab their phones and “reshare it with the hashtag.” Ellen kindly offered me a mimosa.

  “I think I’ll hold off until brunch,” I said, laying a hand on my stomach. “But, Michelle, I brought something for you.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a curly straw that spelled out bride.

  “Ooooh, cute.” She finally gave me a half smile. “Thanks, Julie.”

  A pause.

  “Now, can you go get dressed and then call the Uber? We should leave in like thirty minutes.”

  * * *

  • • •

  After a mimosa and an order of eggs Benedict, I almost felt like myself again.

  Sure, Rebecca, Jen, and Sylvie had taken “bottomless brunch” a little too literally, asking for multiple mimosa refills before their glasses were empty and forcing all of us into a series of blurry selfies. Yes, the music was loud and clublike, inspiring Michelle to stand up and dance in our booth, looking around to see who might be watching her. But something about the predictable routine of sliding into inebriation with the women I had been drinking with since I was a teenager was surprisingly pleasant. Some things never changed, for better or worse. Maybe the previous night would be forgotten.

  “Julie, you’ve got this, and we can all Venmo you, right?” Ellen asked when the waitress finally dropped our check.

  I said a silent prayer that everyone would reimburse me quickly, but I knew it was my respo
nsibility as maid of honor to coordinate the group payments. “Yeah, of course. So . . . forty-five dollars per person, and then can you all add in an extra five or six for the Uber?” The UberXL to the south side of the city had cost me $40.

  “Well, I paid for the room service for Michelle this morning,” Darcy said. “There are a lot of things like that. I don’t know about y’all, but I think it’s silly to be calculating for all the little expenses. Like, who owes who a dollar fifty.”

  “Well, I’m not going to charge Michelle for a coffee or something, but . . . the Uber was more expensive,” I said, looking across the horseshoe booth to try to catch Michelle’s eye. After our conversation about my side jobs over the shower weekend, I hoped she understood why I couldn’t afford to take on the bulk of the group’s expenses.

  She typed something on her phone, not looking at me.

  “I can pay whatever?” Ellen asked hesitantly. She was the quietest of the group, so I didn’t expect her to side with me strongly, but I knew she could read the tension and wanted to diffuse it. I flashed her a smile.

  “Oh, also I don’t have Venmo,” Darcy said. “Sorry, forgot to say. But don’t worry, I brought forty dollars to cover my cost of the brunch.”

  “What the fuck,” I almost snapped. I caught myself. “Okay, that’s fine. Maybe we can stop by an ATM later?”

  Michelle finally set her phone down on the table, and I looked at her expectantly. “Look, I’m sure the little things like Ubers will just all even themselves out. Let’s stop worrying about it. Plus, some people were out later and paying for more things for me last night,” she said pointedly. “Come on, let’s go. I’m ready for a tipsy walking tour.”

  “OMG, let’s stop at Acme on the way. Cute guys!” Jen said loudly.

  “Jen, you’re married.”

  “I don’t know, for, like, Julie, then!”

  “Or me!” Rebecca chimed in.

  I felt myself fade away, receding inside my head as the loud, drunken conversation crashed over me like a wave. My ears buzzed, and I felt dizzy. Could I afford this weekend? Why didn’t Michelle care? Didn’t she understand? Had I really done something that wrong?

  Screw that, the other voice in my head retorted.

  My phone dinged. I pulled it out of my purse, grateful for some form of distraction. I had one text. From Michelle.

  “We’ll figure this out later. Stop making such a big deal of this rn,” it read.

  I dropped my phone back into my purse. Wordlessly, I turned to follow the group out of the restaurant, weaving around tables of women laughing hysterically, hugging, having the time of their lives.

  I resolved to talk to Michelle as little as possible for the rest of the day.

  CHAPTER 22

  Michelle called three days after I got home. I hadn’t spoken to her since our chilly good-bye in the lobby of the hotel on Sunday, the taxi loitering outside while I tried to decide if I should apologize again for Friday night, or if what she had said at the brunch meant that she owed me an apology instead. Ultimately, I just hugged her stiffly and said, “Get home safe.” She didn’t avoid my embrace or confront me, but she didn’t tell me she loved me like she usually did when we said good-bye, either. I got in the taxi and didn’t look out the window until we pulled away.

  I had been foolishly telling myself that it would be easier to work everything out after my procedure was done two days later. Pregnant—it was still hard to admit that that word applied to me—and still dealing with the fallout from Mark, I was not exactly feeling like my best self. But I answered her call. If there was any hope for us working things out, I had to stop turning away from her.

  “Hi. Look,” she said as soon as I said hello. “If I was a little uptight at the bachelorette party, that’s on me. There was so much going on. You saw how Jen and Sylvie treat every weekend away from their husbands like they’re on senior spring break in Cabo.” She laughed conspiratorially, and I snickered in spite of myself. “And I just didn’t want there to be drama over bills and stuff during the weekend.”

  I owned up, too. “I am sorry I got sick and copped out—awful timing. Mostly, I feel shitty that I let some personal stuff get in the way of your weekend. Anyway, everything’s okay now. Is your Nashville hangover gone yet?”

  “Personal stuff?”

  So she had picked this moment to be perceptive. Great. “It’s nothing,” I said quickly. “I just mean I was stressed.”

  “Something was going on.”

  I sat down on my bed and sighed. “If I tell you not to worry about it, will you leave it for now? I’m fine, I swear.”

  “I guess,” she said, but then her voice changed. “But I think I deserve to know what’s going on. First off, I’m your best friend—”

  “You are, but just trust me that—”

  “And second, you were being lame the whole trip, Julie. You were sick at night, okay, but even before that. You were distracted, you were acting like you didn’t even care, acting like you were ‘too good’ for matching tank tops, and parties, and weddings—my wedding—and it’s not fair. Then the whole time out, you were sulking that you didn’t feel well—”

  “I wasn’t sulking. I was sick because I’m fucking pregnant!”

  And then time stood still. That was an expression I had never truly understood before. I knew what it meant, but I had never felt the whole vast expanse of my life held up in one frozen moment. I sat there in my pocket of silence, feeling wholly apart from my room, my bed, my life. Did I really say it by mistake? To punish her? Or to punish myself? Say something, say something.

  “Julie, oh my God,” she whispered, and Michelle never said “oh my God.” “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “A lot of reasons?” I said lamely.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re still in shock, but it will be okay. I think it’ll be perfect. But forget me, what does Mark think? What do you think?”

  I thought a lot of things, actually. I thought about Lily and Brooks, the names Michelle had picked out for her future children and had clung to, unchanged, since she was a child herself. I thought about how happy she had been for Darcy when she announced her pregnancy at the party. I thought about how she sounded more excited, more interested in my being pregnant than she had been about anything in my life for months. I thought about how I was about to change everything between us, probably forever. And I couldn’t handle another good-bye right now.

  “I think that I’m not . . .” I trailed off, and shut my eyes. I gathered myself. “Michelle, I’m not having it. That’s why I didn’t say anything. Because it’s really hard, and really personal, and . . .”

  The silence buzzed loudly in my ears until she spoke up. “Julie, you can’t mean that . . . no. I’ll help you, my mama will help you; come home if you want. But you have to think about this. I know you’re scared about your future, and you’re scared that you’re on your own, but—”

  “I’m actually not scared of my future, Michelle. That’s not what this is about. Not anymore.” This wasn’t completely true, but I wanted it to be. I needed to believe it, finally.

  “I can fly up there.” Her steely voice, resolved. Marcia. “I will come get you.”

  “Please don’t. Or do, or I don’t know.” I sighed, already exhausted. “But this is decided. I can’t have a baby. And more than that, what matters is that I don’t want to. I know you don’t understand, but please.” Please what? Tears started to form and I blinked furiously. I had cried more in the past month than in the past three years, and I was sick of it. Sick of everything.

  “What do you want me to say?” she hissed. “Julie, you know how I feel about this. How I thought you felt about this. It’s wrong! You’re being hasty, and you’re just throwing a life away, and for what? So you can read books all day?”

  And there it was, the question I feared the most. In all my intr
ospective walks around the city, where I made up arguments in my head to support my decision, I had never been able to face that one. It made sense to point to the way my mom had struggled, how parts of her life had crumbled under the strain of trying to raise me alone. It was also easy to say that I couldn’t afford a child in New York, not even if Mark helped; that was plainly true. It followed, then, that a “right to life” did not promise that a child would have a good one. The pregnancy was making me sick and exhausted, and making it through nine months of that already seemed like too much to bear. What Michelle had asked, though, was the big question: For what? Like I had to have a full justification for what I would offer up to society as a payment for shirking motherhood. As though it wasn’t enough just to be a woman. To be myself.

  My head felt hot, as if the fast-mounting anger and hurt might burn me up from the inside. I wanted, for the first time, to truly hurt her back. “Well, I guess some of us do want more than a husband or a baby out of our lives, yes.”

  “Oh, that’s what you think?” She made an exasperated sound caught somewhere between a shriek and a snarl. “You want to make me say it? Fine, I’ll say it. You act like you’re above needing a guy, like I’m so needy, but then why are you dating Mark? You don’t seem like you love him; you don’t do things for him—”

  “I don’t ‘do things’ for him? What are you even—”

  “Not even that, it’s that you’re all, ‘I’d be so happy alone,’ but then why are you with a guy that you can’t even decide if you’re excited about?”

  “Well, Mark and I broke up, so . . .” I paused, both stung and surprised. I lay down and sank into the bed. “And anyway, you knew I felt like that?”