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Tasha shows up at nine with two bottles of champagne, a garment bag, and a speaker.

“Wedding day!” She kicks the guest room door shut behind her. “Okay. Okay. Mimosas. Then hair. Then makeup. Then I cry. Then you cry. Then we fix the makeup.”

She pops a bottle. She pours two glasses. She hands me one.

I don’t take it.

She keeps holding it out.

“I’m good,” I say.

She looks at the glass. Then at me. Then at the glass.

Then she looks at my stomach.

Then she looks at my face.

“Bitch,” she says.

“Tasha…”

“Bitch.”

“Don’t…”

“Are you…”

“Shh! Don’t say it! Auntie Gwen’s next door!”

Tasha puts both glasses down on the dresser very, very carefully. Then she grabs me by both shoulders and screams. No sound. Just her mouth open as wide as it’ll go, shaking me back and forth, and I start laughing so hard I have to sit down on the bed.

“In the trunk?” she whispers.

“No, not in the trunk!”

“In the club? On the glass?”

“I don’t know! Somewhere!” I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. “There’s been a lot of places, Tasha!”

She drops down next to me on the bed and puts both her hands on my stomach like it’s a crystal ball.

“I’m the godmother,” she says.

“Okay.”

“I’m not asking.”

“I said okay.”

“I don’t care what that Russian says. I don’t care if he got a cousin. I’m the godmother.”

“Tasha. I said okay.”

She looks at me. Her eyes are wet.

“Girl,” she says. “Two months ago you was eating crackers out your apron.”

“I know.”