I peek behind her. “Where is she?”
“Who, Rowan?” She frowns. “She’s at home. This is the gift.”
She shoves a horribly wrapped, plane-smushed bundle of purple fabric my way. “Is this the coat?” I ask, my voice embarrassingly hoarse.
“The one and only, birthday girl.” Then Renata grabs my shoulders, the coat falling. “Your hair.”
“Yes.”
“It’s orange.”
“Correct.”
“Did you just do it?” She picks at a tendril of haunted-house-actor wet hair. “It’s so—”
“Commercial?”
“Oh my god, I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” She pinches my cheek lightly, eyes twinkling. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. Let me inside, I want to see the depression cave.”
She steps around me, and I hear Maisie rounding the corner, the sound of gleeful hugs. If I can’t remember the last time I’ve been home, then I definitely can’t remember the last time I’ve let Renata come over. Or when we’ve been in the same place while she isn’t on full-time mom duty.
“You have to make your husband work,” she lectures the girls. “Or your wife. Or, partner. Whoever it is, if you have children, they have to do childcare.”
Samantha nods, Maisie laughs, Bailey’s tuned out. When they go to the kitchen for drinks, and it’s just me and Renata in the living room, I ask, “So, does this Bryce-childcare lecture come from a certain place, or…?”
She laughs. “Sort of. We’ve overdue for a power rebalance. I’m, uh, starting school.”
“You are?” I gasp. “Where? What?”
“It’s just online classes, for software stuff. I want to get a part-time job, you know, work from home, cool mom, Pilates, etcetera.”
“Ren! That’s major.” I squeeze her foot, the closest thing to me. I gave her a set of my own pajamas, so we’re in matching mismatched fuzzy Christmas-slash-Hannukah socks. “I’m really proud of you.”
“Yeah.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “I might’ve told you-know-who about you-know-what, too.”
And now I’m grabbing her ankle. “You did.”
“I had to. I mean, pictures of my best friend are on Reddit, rejecting this F1 driver’s proposal.”
“Shit, I forgot to even think about that, I’m so—”
“No, it’s, like, the story of the century. You’re such a badass. And he thought so, too. And… and it was time. So, thank you. For forcing my hand.”
I love her so, so much. More and more each year. And I might’ve struck out this time with relationship-love, but I’ve got someone to grow old with. What a treat, to see how Renata becomes more herself. “I’ve felt every emotion this past week,” I say. “And none of them are badass. But thank you. For lying.”
Grinning wider, she leans over and ruffles my frizzy half-dry hair. “Look at us, being so mature. You turn thirty and your prefrontal cortex just snaps into place.”
“Like, me, or the royal ‘you’?”
“To be determined.” She leans back, eyes the door. Frowns. “So.”
“Yes?”
“No birthday flowers from the Large Rude Man?”
“He isn’t that large. And no.” I smooth my hair back into place, heart twisting. “It’s okay.”
She tilts her head. “It is?”
