Bernardo’s eyes light up.
“Slow down there,” Arizona says, and elbows me like I’m going to be in on the joke of how ridiculous it would be to say I love you at this point in my relationship. My face goes up in flames.
“I mean, I’m in love,” I say, the words sounding like they’re underwater and I’m above water, and it’s funny when your sentences are located somewhere different from your body, like I’m not the same as the things I say. It’s deep thoughts like this that really take hold when I’m drunk.
“That’s enough,” Arizona says, like love is a thing she can Put a Stop To. “That’s enough.” She says it again, because sometimes when you’re drunk you have to say things twice.
Roxanne lights a cigarette and Karissa wiggles her fingers as a way of asking for her own. Arizona rolls her eyes, and I wonder why she’s down here at all if she’s going to stay pissed.
“One for me and Arizona too,” I say. Everything is kind of the worst, but surviving this crap together is what we do.
“Me too,” Bernardo says. He’s been so quiet I almost forgot he was here. I’m not the best girlfriend tonight. I kiss him on the cheek and hold the back of his neck in my hand for a moment. It’s not enough, but for him it seems it could be. “I get it,” he whispers.
“It’s Bernardo Day tomorrow,” I whisper back. “We can go see a Mets game. Or buy more scarves. Or read comics.”
“I don’t read comics.”
“Oh. You seem like someone who might read comics,” I say. We forgot to keep whispering, so now everyone can hear. Arizona flinches.
“I’m good,” she says. “I don’t want to smoke. Or drink.”
“Oh, come on, we need this,” I say. I want us to be in it together, whatever it is. However messed up it is.
“I’m going to head back upstairs,” she says. “Dad’s gonna ask if I’ve seen his fiancée. I don’t like lying.”
“Since when?” Roxanne says, laughing.
“Montana, you should come upstairs too. For a slice of cake. And our ritual.” She’s saying this on purpose to leave Karissa out. I can tell from the lift of her eyebrows and the fact that her voice gets a little louder on the word ritual.
I thought we were making a new ritual down here, but Arizona wants our old ones. And I love her a little more for that. It’s comforting, to know we both want the sister-bond we had. We both miss the things before this summer. Before this year.
I chug a little more wine. With enough of it in my system, Arizona and Karissa can both look the way I prefer them to, the way they do in my ideal world. I can force this situation into something manageable. Survivable.
“It’s that time,” Arizona says.
“Use more words?” Bernardo says. He tilts his head like that will help him understand what’s happening.
Arizona and I have a ritual where we guess how long Dad will stay with his girlfriend or wife. We each write down our guesses—how many months—on a sheet of paper, fold the pages, and hide them under Arizona’s bed in a jewelry box filled with old jewelry that Mom gave her before she left (ninety-five months, though we obviously didn’t make guesses on that marriage). Whoever is closest gets a piece of jewelry from the box. I’ve had my eye on a string of turquoise beads.
Arizona always wins. She chooses the lowest number of months. I’m too optimistic, even when turquoise beads are at stake. I can’t help myself. I’ve only ever won a single silver ring, a plain braided design from when he dated and immediately broke up with a girl named Fuchsia. For some reason, Arizona gave her three months. I gave it one. It lasted three weeks.
It is not our only ritual. There is also the Closet of Forgotten Things, filled with things the wives have left behind over the years. My father can never seem to bring himself to throw away the remnants of his failed marriages. We have a ceremony with that, too.
“Montana. Come on. Let’s do this our way, okay? The Varren sisters way.” Her voice is low and sweet and so comfortable and soft I could fall asleep in it. I almost do.
I want it to be me and Arizona against the world again.