Page 93 of Fun at Parties
She turns the pot in a circle slowly, examining the plant from all sides. “I get why it feels that way, but you’re not the same person as your parents. You’re not driving yourself full-speed into debt to stay on top of your pyramid scheme. You’re responsible. You buy men’s razors because they’re cheaper.”
“Which isoffensive.”
“Yeah, but people like me still pay the extra thirty cents because we want the purple one. My point is that you’re the one making decisions for yourself now. And I fully believe that if anyone can find a way to turn their back on what they thought was the perfect job and succeed anyway, it’s you.”
“I may not be driving myselffurtherinto debt, but I’m already there. And buying cheap razors isn’t going to save me from that.” I sweep the soil scattered across the table into a pile. “I think I need to accept that CycleLove is just a job, and be grateful for the paycheck, and do my best to make the rest of my life in L.A. good.”
“Quinn, I’m your biggest supporter. If that’s what you decide to do, I’ll work on being a better long-distance friend too. I’ll visit again, and I won’t leave L.A. without booking my next trip.”
A lump swells in my throat. Bailey wants to fight for our friendship just as much as I do. I need to hold on to this feeling, to wrap myself in it during the moments when things feel tough. “We’ll video chat more too.”
She snorts. “So I can tell when you’re bullshitting me? That might help. Although I don’t know, I think there arealways going to be things you miss when you aren’t seeing someone in 3D. It would be a lot easier if you’d stop trying to bullshit me, by the way.”
“I’ll try,” I vow.
“And please be good to yourself. Think about whether there’s another way. I’d love to have a roommate here to help with all the weeding.”
Her phone buzzes. A secretive smirk pulls at her mouth when she looks at the screen.
“What?” I ask.
“Nate wants to know if you made it back.”
I lean closer and crane my neck, but she stiff-arms me and turns away, typing feverishly with the other hand.
“What are you saying?” I struggle ineffectually to climb over her. “That’s too much typing! I don’t like it.”
“None of your business,” she says in a singsong voice. “See, this is why I told you not to hook up with my friends.”
“Okay, forget California. I need to be farther away from you. Maybe Jupiter.”
Bailey and I spend the next three days sitting on the cold beach, swaddled in oversized sweatshirts. I pepper her with questions about everything I’ve missed in her life: the current state of her confusing relationship with a guy from her beach volleyball team, her parents’ move to Florida, the successes and failures of her summer vegetable garden. When we want to move our legs, we walk the boardwalk with the senior citizens. I drag her to boot camp every morning, and at night we watch consecutive episodes ofAbbott Elementary.
In between, I follow up with people on the guest list about the party’s theme, focusing on the ones who’ve expressed enthusiasm but don’t have a costume locked down.Try the vintage store!I suggest multiple times.I spoke to the owner and she’s got some ideas.Giving Bailey the party of her dreams won’t make up for everything I’ve done, but it’s the right first step.
On the fourth day, she has to work. I pop into her office, so she stops bugging me about being overdue for my annual mole check, and spend the rest of the day sitting in a beach chair, raking my fingers through the sand with my earbuds in.
People romanticize the beach, but for good reason. The sound of the waves, the briny air slapping me in the face, the huge expanse of sky—hell, maybe it’s just that this place is imbued with all my best memories—gradually, it quiets the noise inside me. It gives me space to breathe. I’m sad and scared and I haven’t solved my problems, but I start to feel like myself again. Those fingertips in the sand are mine. Those restless feet, pointing and flexing, belong to me, and I can decide where to plant them.
I know who I am. I always have.
Good luck tomorrow, I text Nate the day before his pitch.
The three little dots pop up immediately, then disappear. I knew there was a good chance he wouldn’t reply, but I hate how it feels. It isn’t until I climb back into the car, which Ireallyneed to get detailed before Michelle’s husband picks it up over the weekend, that Nate’s response comes through.Thanks, he says.I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.
Yes, you would’ve, I reply.
This time, he messages back right away.How are things with Bailey?
Like we’re as close as we used to be, I say.Like we weren’t apart at all.
Good, he says, and part of me hopes he’s going to continue the conversation, but he doesn’t. And that’s fair.
I spend most of the week dodging Tracy, posting nothing but pictures of the ocean. The CycleLove social media accounts are promoting my return next week, and fear digs a pit into my stomach every time I see their posts. I don’t push the fear away, or try to turn it into excitement, but I don’t ignore it either. Instead I study it, map it out: how deep it goes, when and where it feels the sharpest.
Turns out it carves me up the worst when they post things likePsst, hey, girl: If you’re not sure whether to DUMP HIM, take Quinn Ray’s comeback class on Sunday.And when they actually, seriously share a photo of me with Miley’s “Flowers” playing over it.
On the sixth day, after a gloriously sunny morning on the beach where the sun is warm and the wind is cool, I spend an hour drafting a caption and post it on Instagram with another picture of the ocean.
