We both throw our shots back. Diet Bob Dylan launches into an enthusiastic cover of Hilary Duff’s “Why Not.” We listen for a second before Ren asks the all-important question, “Does this song mean anything to any of us?”
“It matters to Stevie, I guess.”
She ballerina leaps around the dance floor, Leo applauding her from the sidelines.
“This isn’t a slow song,” I point out, her moves not exactly matching the music.
“It’s not,” Ren confirms. He takes my plastic shot glass from me and stacks it in his, sets it on a table before he offers me his hand.
I take it, and he pulls me onto the dance floor toward them. I don’t know what comes next, but I let myself enjoy it, a snapshot memory I’ll hold on to forever.
* * *
After another hour at Clyde’s, we make it back to the rental house. On one side of the living room, Leo starts up a rousing round of charades that Ren and I are not allowed to play because of our prior alleged but totally false cheating scandals,while Sasha curls up on the couch to spectate, eyes sleepy.
Stevie drags me into the kitchen, where she busies herself making what she’s calling a “blended Long Island daiquiri.” I force her to drink two glasses of water and eat a piece of toast as she chatters on.
“It’s going well, don’t you think it’s going well?” she says, all in one mad rush, as she dumps another shot glass of lemonade into the blender. She sniffs it, thinks for a minute, and then adds a glug of Midori Sour that I think she found in one of the rental’s cupboards.
“It’s going well,” I say. “Are you having fun?”
“I’m havingfun,” she says, before she pouts out her lower lip. “I’m sad, though.”
Worry courses through me, warning bells going off and lights flashing. Affectionate Stevie is one thing. Sad drunk Stevie cannot come out at her bachelorette party.
“Why are you sad?” I ask, wary that by merelyaskingthe question I’ll inadvertently unlock the floodgates, but not quite sure how to proceed without having more information.
“I’m sad that the guy back at the bar didn’t know any One Direction!” She half shouts it.
“Wasthatthe song you wanted to dedicate to all of us?”
“Yes,” she says, gripping my wrist with both her hands. “I wanted everyone to dance to the sounds of our youth.”
“Stevie, I hate to break it to you, but I thinkwewere the only two who loved One Direction.”
“That’s not true. Sasha saw Harry Styles in Paris!”
“She did?” I ask, whipping my head to look toward the living room at the same time Stevie shouts, “Fire in the hole!” and turns on the blender without the lid on.
I make another, less offensive, drink for Stevie and turn on One Direction on the Bluetooth speaker. She calls for more games,and we all gather around the dining room table to play Trivial Pursuit, which is missing most of its cards.
By the time we’ve made our way through two albums and the game has disintegrated into reading questions out loud to the group, giving points to whoever can answer, Stevie is yawning.
“I need a nap,” she says.
“Let’s head to bed.” Leo’s hand plays at the top of her head.
“No, just a nap,” she protests, even as her eyelids are fluttering. “I’ll be ready to go after that.”
“Come on, babe,” Leo says, helping her up from her chair.
I head back into the kitchen to tidy things up. Through the small window into the living room, I watch Ren set up two air mattresses, the pump whirring, then make them neatly with the blankets we both brought and found here.
“I can do that,” Sasha says, wandering in behind me. She leans in the doorway while I scrub some of Stevie’s blender mess off a cupboard. Sasha has planned the whole wedding, organized this week down to the second, but no matter how good at it she is, it seems like tonight has finally worn her down.
“Maid of honor duty,” I say, turning back to her. “You should go to bed.”
She yawns. “I think we did a pretty good job today.”
