She stands and opens her arms wide. “Come to Mama!”
I run the short distance between us and hug her fiercely. “What are you doing here? Oh my God!”
“What am I . . . doing . . . here? Right now, I’m trying . . . to breathe . . .”
I release my grip on her and step back, laughing. “Sorry.” I shake my head in disbelief.
Steffi tosses her hair and puts her hands on my shoulders. “I. Have. To. Pee.”
“Okay, okay!” I unlock the front door, take her to the ladies’ room and then to my suite, all the while hurling questions at her.
“For real, what are you doing here? I cannot believe this!” There is genuine happiness flooding from me right now. I automatically set the latest care package on top of the others in the spare room. When I turn back to Steffi, she’s making quite the face. “What is it?” I ask.
She gestures behind me. “Um, are you building an oversize game of Jenga in there? What the hell is up with the boxes?”
“Oh.” She’s got a point. The box tower is a little weird looking. “They’re from Simon.”
“I see.” She flashes a curious smile. “We’ll get back to that later. I did not take a red-eye to Boston and then rent a car to drive a million hours because you have a hoarding problem.”
We both sit down on the couch. “So, why come? And why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugs. “I wanted to surprise you.”
I’m still flabbergasted that she’s in front of me. “But, but . . . how did you afford a ticket and a car?”
“Do you have any idea how much money my scholarship gives me to buy books and stuff? Way too much. I’m not buying every single thing on the syllabi. You know how it is. Half the time, we don’t use a book for more than a day. So, I traded in unnecessary books for a trip.”
“I’m very glad you did.” I hug her again. As I do, I can’t help but search for the scar that is imprinted on her shoulder blade. A reminder of the challenging childhood she has survived. “And we need to feed you. You’re skin and bones.”
“And boobs! Don’t forget the boobs!” She smushes her chest against mine, and I laugh.
“I could not forget the boobs,” I assure her as I sit back. “I can’t wait to hear everything that’s going on with you! You hungry? What do you want to do for dinner?”
“Tequila,” she states.
“Could we have a food component, too?”
“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
CHAPTER 8
TEQUILA AND THINGS
The food component turns out to be Italian food from a restaurant down the street that I’d never tried. Steffi inhales her plate of fettuccine Alfredo, and, in between bites, chastises me for never having been here. “I mean, really? Do you now understand what you’ve been missing out on?” Then she stabs one of my meatballs and shoves the entire thing in her mouth.
A quick pit stop at the liquor store (where Steffi is handed flyers from three different guys for various parties), and we are back in my room, with Steff now pouring us our first tequila shot. I haven’t had a drink since this summer, and the alcohol burns down my throat. I smile. “God, I missed tequila.”
“And tequila missed you.” She bites a lime wedge and winces. “Know what else missed you?”
“What?”
She reaches into the paper bag next to her and raises a bottle. “Gin!”
“Yay!”
Her other hand goes to the bag and emerges with another bottle. “And tonic!”
“Yay!”
“And yay for my bangin’ fake ID.”
I pour us strong drinks and get some ice cubes from the minifridge while Steff makes a playlist on my computer and blasts music from my bedroom.
“Oh, hell. Is today Friday?” she calls out.
“Yeah, why?” I step into my bedroom and set down her drink on the desk. “Why are you on Amazon?” I squint at the screen. “And why are you buying a roll of cartoon sheep stickers, duct tape, and a nose-hair trimmer?”
Steff takes a large swig and then spins in the chair to face me. “Remember the apartment that I lived in last summer? Well, after I moved, I accidentally sent some things there because I forgot to update my address on some websites. Including, I will have you know, a site where I bought a megahot and not-inexpensive dress. The two stupid girls who moved in after me never sent back anything.” She takes another drink. “Or they would just claim things never arrived. Liars. So, every month I send off something addressed to me at my old address. I like the idea that they get all excited, thinking they can steal more of my purchases, and they probably get hyped up, thinking it’s something cool—because I always order cool things, right?—and then they open the package, and it’s striped tube socks and a poop emoji pillow or whatever. So I am punishing them forever.”
Oh, how I have missed this girl.
I sit on the bed. “That’s kind of goddamn brilliant. I want to help!”
“Go ahead. Pick out something. Aside from buying plane tickets, this is also what I do with the extra financial aid money.” She puts her hands behind her head and stretches. “I really am a genius.”
After some browsing, I add a no-solicitors sticker and a box of poorly reviewed quinoa crackers, and when the confirmation e-mail dings on her phone, telling us that her order was received, we celebrate by slamming down our drinks and both burping at the same time. Soul sisters, we are for sure.
I’m a definite lightweight, so by nine thirty, I am beyond tipsy, and it feels fantastic. Steffi is doing some crazy dance that is predominately defined by Hula-Hoop hip moves and Superman arms. It’s superodd but rather entertaining. From my spot on the couch, I suck an ice cube and watch my friend move through the common room as she dances off the beat. I am still gobsmacked that she is here, and the smile plastered on my face is a welcome respite from the events of this past week.
It’s that thought that makes me sit bolt upright. “Hey! Wait a minute!” I yell, my voice garbled from the ice cube in my mouth. “Stop!”
“Huh?” Steffi pauses her dance. “You cannot handle my sexiness?” She shakes her hips.
“You!” I thrust a pointed finger her way. “You are not here because you had extra money!”
Her face drops. “What do you mean? I wanted a long weekend with my best girl. That’s all.” But she reaches for the gin bottle and starts to pour a drink.
“You are here,” I say forcefully, while repeatedly jabbing my finger at her, “for nefarious reasons!”
Steff laughs. “Nefarious reasons? Oh really?”
“Stephanie Elinor Troy! You are sneaky! ’Fess up, right now!”
But she can barely talk because she is doubled over, laughing and trying to breathe.
I frown. “What is so funny?”
Finally, she answers. “My middle name is not Elinor!” Then her fit of hysterical laughter continues, and she sits beside me.
“It’s not?” There is the beginning of a slur in my voice. “Why do I think it is? Who is Elinor?”
The poor girl might hyperventilate, and it takes her forever to answer. “Remember that weird family I lived with in Watertown? Elinor was the name of their Jack Russell terrier.”