Before I can totally lose my mind, a silver BMW SUV pulls into the spot beside me and a voice chirps, “Hey, lady, what are you doing out here?”
I wave and drag my suitcase over to the car as Wendy emerges from the driver’s side, glancing at her dainty gold watch. “Lemme guess, Summer’s late.”
“We’re the first ones here,” I confirm. “And they wouldn’t let me in yet.”
“No wonder you’re melting,” she says as we air-kiss.
Wendy’s black with Disney princess dark eyes complemented by perfectly arched brows and a flawless complexion. Always stylish, today her petite frame is draped in the quintessential flying-on-a-private-jet-to-the-South-of-France outfit: freshly pressed white linen pants paired with tan wedges and a billowy golden top, her signature long wavy raven extensions covered by a floppy white sun hat.
My uncomfortable vintage dress suddenly just feels old. I am never as aware of my appearance as when I’m around Wendy and Summer. It’s not their fault; they’re just effortlessly chic. If I am ever chic, there is definitely full effort involved. My brain simply doesn’t work that way. I see a dress and think it’s an outfit. They put together a whole look.
Wendy’s roommate, Claire, gets out of the passenger side and joins us at the back of the car, where we repeat the air-kiss ritual. I notice she’s cut her usually long dark hair into a flattering lob, accented with beachy waves and caramel highlights that bring out her blue eyes. “Love your hair,” I say.
“Thanks!” Her dimples twinkle as she smiles. “Have I not seen you since I cut it?”
“Not since Wendy’s birthday dinner back in June, I think.”
“Claire’s never around since she started dating Mr. Major League,” Wendy teases.
“My boyfriend’s in Chicago, so I’m there a lot now,” Claire explains. “He’s a baseball player.”
“That’s great,” I enthuse.
Claire’s an incredibly sweet elementary school teacher originally from Miami who’s soft-spoken when she speaks, which isn’t much, and . . . well, I’m not sure what else, to be honest. We’ve known each other probably four years, and I’m ashamed to admit I don’t think we’ve had a meaningful conversation in that entire time—probably because she’s always overshadowed by Wendy, who is hands-down the most outgoing, energetic, popular person I’ve ever met. When we first became friends at UCLA, Wendy was president of her sorority as well as head of the Greek Society, somehow balancing maintenance of a 4.0 GPA with planning fundraisers and beautification projects for the school grounds. These days she’s an event coordinator turned publicist, and knows—I’m not kidding—everyone in Los Angeles. Well, everyone from a certain social set, anyway. The social set that would go to fancy events and need publicity. But trust me, that’s a lot of people. Like a politician, she has that gift of making you feel like she actually cares when she’s talking to you. Which makes sense, because her father’s a state senator in Ohio.
I asked her about her overwhelming charm once, thinking it was just a natural part of being Wendy, but it turns out it’s a technique. She told me it was all about light touch and eye contact. She tried to show me how to do it, but I just came off as creepy. You’d think that because I’m an actress, manipulation would come easily to me, but I’ve always just tried to be a decent human—and foolishly expected everyone else to as well. Unrealistic, I know. I’m working on it.
“I had dinner at Cove last night and stopped by the bar after, but I didn’t see you,” Wendy says.
“I took the night off so I could pack,” I fib. A casting director I’ve auditioned for numerous times yet never quite booked through was having a party there, and I didn’t want her to see me bartending. But Wendy got me the job (for which I am grateful), so I can’t tell her that. It’s not that I’m embarrassed to be a bartender per se. It’s just that after a year of being able to pay all my bills acting, I feel . . . Okay, maybe I’m a little embarrassed that things haven’t turned out quite the way I imagined. I’ve hit a slump, as it were. A speed bump. That’s all it’s going to be, because things are going to be different when I get back from this trip, I swear it.
Wendy opens her liftgate, revealing a completely stuffed trunk. “Overpack much?” I tease.
“The big one’s for clothes, the medium for shoes and bags, and the small for hair products,” Wendy says, indicating a matching set of maroon luggage. “You know me and my weave.”
“I was gonna say, it’s looking especially gorgeous today,” I laugh.
She gently sweeps her hair over one shoulder with a smile. “Thanks, it’s fresh for the trip.”
“I swear I had a regular-size bag until Wendy got involved,” Claire says as the three of us lift her gargantuan suitcase onto the pavement.
“Sounds familiar.” I give her a meaningful smile.
A chauffeured black Suburban rolls up as we’re unloading Wendy’s trio of bags, and Summer’s mom, Rhonda, her sister, Brittani, and another girl I don’t recognize spill out, juggling coffee cups, cell phones, hats, and purses.
Here we go.
“Had to stop at the outlet stores on our way into town,” Rhonda announces with a flourish. As if to punctuate her declaration, a shopping bag tumbles out of the car before the driver can catch it, spilling three boxes of shoes onto the pavement. “Wouldn’t wanna be underdressed in the South of France!”
Brittani gives her mom a high five, and they make spirit fingers like cheerleaders.
Besides a few extra pounds and some unfortunate cosmetic tweaks that have left her looking persistently surprised and curiously puffy, Rhonda hasn’t changed much in the ten years since I last saw her: blond-streaked hair piled on top of her head, makeup just a little too done, leopard-print top stretched taut across her ample chest.
I haven’t laid eyes on Brittani in as long, either, and I’m immediately surprised that despite their different fathers she’s grown up to look exactly like her sister—leggy, blond, and beautiful, with enviable cheekbones and a perfect bow of a mouth. Only, where Summer is always dressed as though she’s just come from brunch on the Upper East Side, Brittani looks like she’s headed to spring break in Cancun. She’s wearing a tight pink T-shirt with WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS . . . spelled out in rhinestones over cutoff jean shorts, and her hair is brassy from peroxide. Which is to say she’s clearly inherited her mother’s sense of style.
“Girls’ trip!” Brittani whoops as she gallops over.
I flash a bright smile. “Brittani! Rhonda! So good to see you guys!”
“Listen to you! ‘You guys’! You can say ‘y’all’ with us. We all know you’re from the South!” Brittani exclaims, putting on a Southern drawl. She hip-checks me, sending me stumbling into a Porsche.
I regain my balance, managing a good-natured, “Wow, you look great. I think you were twelve the last time I saw you.”
“Well, I’m twenty-two now! Whooooo!” Spirit fingers again. “Are you still trying to be an actress?”
I smother my irritation. Brittani can’t possibly mean to be as condescending as she sounds, can she? “I’m still acting, yeah,” I say, forcing a smile.