Page 10 of Best Woman
“Are we allowed to be here?” I ask, carefully clutching my drink so as not to spill it on the fur rug.
River, clad in leather pants so tight I’m worried about their circulation, admires their legs in the mirror. “Oh absolutely, Hannah G and I are basically family.”
From his perch on said pop star’s marble vanity, Kyle snorts. “How many phones has she thrown at you this year?”
River smiles, snapping a selfie. “Three. I got to keep this one when my nose cracked the screen.”
We are staked out in the pop star’s SoHo loft, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and the kind of furniture you only buy if you become very rich very quickly but have no taste. Maybe I should connect Hannah G with Everett and try to get a commission out of it.
After mixing a round of cocktails (“If she were here she’d obviously offer us a drink,” River had insisted) we’d decamped to a walk-in closet straight out of a Russian billionaire’s YouTube handbag collection tour.
The “dressing room” is the size of my entire apartment and the bodega downstairs.
Every wall is full of floor-to-ceiling shelves, every shelf filled with designer bags, shoes, and clothing.
When we arrived, Daytona grabbed a Birkin and told us she’d be in the guest bedroom taking nudes. She’s been gone…awhile.
Giving their leather-clad legs one more satisfied nod, River meets my eyes in the mirror. “Jules, I’m so happy you changed your mind. We are going to find you something sickening to wear to this bar mitzvah.”
“It’s a wedding.”
“Sure.” They walk to a clothing rack nearly buckling under the weight of what must be at least twenty gowns and start flipping through the hangers. “How do you feel about ass cleavage? Prada is all about VBC this season.”
“VBC?” I ask, not really wanting to know.
“Visible butt crack. There was a Women’s Wear Daily article about it.”
“I’ll make sure to mention that to the security guards as they drag me screaming from the synagogue.”
They start flinging dresses onto a chaise lounge. “Wonderful, but don’t let them grab you too hard. These are ‘borrowed,’ after all.” They even do the air quotes.
I slink back toward the vanity and hop up next to Kyle. “Why do I feel like we’re in The Bling Ring and River is Emma Watson?”
Kyle snorts. “Did you see the look the doorman gave us on our way in? I’m pretty sure he was pressing a panic button under the desk.”
I take a sip of Hannah G’s expensive vodka. “Fabulous, the only way this week could get more complicated is with an arrest.”
Kyle shoots me a sympathetic look. Of our little group, he’s the only one with an attention span long enough for emotional labor.
River is the friend I call when I need a mindless night of clubbing.
Daytona will read me to filth when I need to get my shit together and then do my makeup afterward.
Kyle is the person who will drop everything and crawl into bed with me when I need a cuddle.
We met at a yoga class six years ago, left early, had sex, and decided we were better off as sisters.
When I guiltily confessed my scheme at Tony’s after I saw Kim last weekend, Kyle closed the bar early and turned up at my apartment with Erin Brockovich open on his laptop.
“How are you doing?” he asks. I know he wants the truth, not the bullshit—we’re all a bit too self-involved for faux sympathy—but it still feels like an emotional booby trap.
“Stupendous.” I sweep the hand holding my drink out to take in the room.
“We’ve broken into the apartment of someone who currently has two songs on the Billboard Hot 100 and are stealing her extremely expensive clothing so I can con a hot lesbian into paying attention to me at my brother’s wedding. ”
“It’s not stealing,” River corrects, holding up something pink and shiny. “It’s styling . What about PVC? Though it might squeak when you walk down the aisle.”
“I won’t be walking down the aisle, remember? This dress is for the rehearsal dinner.”
“Then I’ll add it to the maybe pile.” They fling the dress into a pile of couture whose value would likely cover the down payment on Everett’s brownstone and a custom sectional.
Kyle tops off my glass. “Are you OK? Still feeling…icky?”
There’s no use pretending in front of Kyle, in front of any of them.
They’ve seen me at my lowest, the nights I cried after a co-worker called me the wrong name, or a girl I had a crush on said we’d be better as friends.
Daytona gave me my first shot of estrogen, River showed me how to walk in heels, Kyle came with me to the courthouse to get my name legally changed and bought us oysters after.
These are the people it’s OK for me to be ugly in front of, both physically and emotionally.
“I know I should feel bad but it’s just…
twisting the truth.” There is a lot of very expensive and completely terrible art in Hannah G’s closet, along with a People’s Choice Award and some very interesting Polaroids featuring a certain Oscar winner.
I didn’t know Hannah G was into British MILFs, another thing we have in common besides our waist-to-hip ratio.
“Yes, twisting it into a lie, ” River says, flinging a sequin skirt onto the pile.
“Maybe I’ve been feeling a little guilty.” A lot more than a little. “Fine, I feel like dog shit.”
“Atta girl,” says Kyle, relieved.
“We’ve been waiting for you to crack,” adds River, looking disdainfully at something large and covered with tulle.
“It’s about damn time, bitch.” Daytona saunters into the room, mercifully clothed, Birkin perched on her arm in a perfect imitation of an Upper East Side hedge fund wife.
“You’ve been spiraling, and the only one who didn’t realize it was you .
” She sidles up to River. “Would she miss the bag if it came home with me?”
“She’d hunt you down to the ends of the earth. Or at least the end of Williamsburg.”
Daytona sighs longingly and replaces the Birkin on a shelf full of nearly identical bags in every shade imaginable.
She turns back toward the vanity and cracks a grin.
“At least the bitch won’t miss the champagne.
” We’ve been chilling a bottle and Daytona pops it with practiced ease, pouring glasses for everyone.
Then she fixes her deep brown eyes, always far too knowing, on me.
“You’ve completed step one, which was admitting that you’re a mess.”
I sniffle. “I don’t know if I’d use the word mess —”
“I would. You’ve been quiet and moody and you keep snapping at everyone, and unless you’re trying to be so unclockable you’ve given yourself phantom PMS, we can admit your loathsome lesbian liaison is why.”
I shoot her a withering glare. “Oh no, you got me. I guess I should stop carrying tampons in my purse just in case .”
Kyle inspects a pair of Hannah G’s diamond earrings. “I mean, they came in handy when River gave themself a deviated septum at the rave we went to under that bridge last year.”
“ Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of pony hair! ” the three of us shriek in unison, cackling at the memory.
“Remind me to never buy ketamine from my landlord again,” River shouts from the pile of chiffon they’re buried under, unflappable as ever. “Speaking of, does anyone want a bump?”
“Neigh,” says Kyle, and considering River’s offering a horse tranquilizer, that could go either way. “Julia, we know that you’ve been under a lot of stress. This isn’t Tumblr in 2011: no one expects you to keep calm and carry on.”
“Except those breeders down in Boca,” Daytona interjects. “But you made your bed, now you get to lie in it while we judge you.”
“I still can’t believe you’ve gotten yourself immersed in something straight out of a low-budget gay romantic comedy,” says Kyle, pouring another glass of champagne. “I know you love a good angst with a happy ending AU, but this is a bit much.”
“Maybe it can just be more friends to lovers .” I can hope.
“Although I’ve barely talked to Kim since high school, and we weren’t very good friends then.
We’re just two queer women supporting each other during a stressful event, one of whom has lied to the other one in order to get into her pants and then marry her and adopt three children and buy a house in Cherry Grove.
” Even a wedding hookup seemed like a stretch, but after a few hours with Kim all of my old high school yearning had returned and taken hold.
I’d been writing her name in the notebook I used at work.
I thought about her every morning when I woke up and every night before I went to bed.
I hadn’t had a proper crush in years, not since my intense fling with a paramedic who lived with his mother on Staten Island and fucked like a sex god.
And I’d never had a crush as powerful or as all-consuming as my teenage love for Kim Cameron.
I felt sixteen again, and it wasn’t just because of the estrogen I’d injected three nights ago.
“You’ll all be invited out for the summer, of course. ”
“Is she hot?” asks Daytona, priorities always in order.
My cheeks flush, and my lips are loose from the champagne. “She is so hot. In high school, she was this cool loner in Doc Martens, but now she’s like, sophisticated and sexy and masc but still a little alt.” Another swig of champagne. “Great tits too.”
Daytona whistles. “Crunchy and curvy, right up your alley.”
She has a point. With men, I tend to favor skinny skater boys with tattoo sleeves, thick black glasses, and stupidly big dicks. With women, I go for girls who smell like patchouli, have at one point in their lives owned a wall tapestry from Urban Outfitters, and…well, have nice butts.
I stand on unsteady legs and wobble over to where River is beckoning me. “It doesn’t matter if she’s my type,” I argue, only slurring a bit. “It’s just a little wedding fling. No one has to get hurt and it probably won’t even happen.”
Kyle and Daytona exchange a glance. It reminds me of the knowing looks my parents gave each other when I was eight and told them I didn’t want to play soccer anymore because of my “allergies” when it was because the team captain, Sarah, said she didn’t want to marry me, even though I’d used her favorite Ring Pop flavor for the proposal.
“If you’re going to be delusional, you might as well go for the full fantasy,” says River, holding something black and slinky in their hands. “Let’s turn you into Cinderella.”
I smile, embarrassed to feel tears welling up. I don’t deserve friends like these.
“One of the stepsisters, at least,” calls Daytona, wrapping herself in a silk robe.
Or maybe I do.
An hour later I leave Hannah G’s building, heavy garment bag slung over my shoulder and a Louis Vuitton duffle in my hand, to make the thankfully short trek home.
I live on almost the exact divide where Chinatown meets Little Italy, and at this time of night, the smell of garlic wafts from every open window.
After a night spent with my favorite people in the world and six figures worth of designer clothing in my hands, I finally feel like this wedding might be OK.
Not amazing. But I’ll survive, and look great doing it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from…Ben Otsuka.
See you in two weeks ;)