“I’m talking to her tomorrow,” Arizona says before we fall asleep.
“About what?” I say. I didn’t drink enough beer to make me drunk, but I’m close to sleep with one toe in a dream about a forest and a bear and a chandelier.
“If she would leave, everything would be okay,” Arizona says. “With Dad. With us. With me. We’d all be okay. I’m sure.” Or it could be the bear that says it. It’s hard to tell.
“Be careful,” I say, because I’ve seen something unhinged in Karissa that is too hard to explain when I’m half-asleep.
Arizona scoffs, misunderstanding. “Everything with Dad would be fine without these women,” she says. I think. Maybe the bear in my dream said it, not Arizona at all, because it sounds like something that would be said in a dream. Something we want to be true but probably isn’t.
When we wake up in the morning, I don’t have time to try to discern dream from reality. There’s a lot of noise and smells and Top 40 pop music coming from the kitchen, so we wander up without the proper transition from sleeping to waking. We emerge from the basement in our clothes from the night before and reeking a little of the things we did. Karissa practically attacks us with friendliness.
“You’re finally up! Been waiting for you so we can have a girls’ afternoon!” she says. Arizona recoils from the sound, and I back off from the smell on Karissa’s breath—sour margarita mix. It’s past noon but not by much, and she has that shiny-eyed look she did the morning she came into my room and kidnapped me. “My mom and dad always used to do margaritas the day after the Fourth of July! It was a total family tradition,” she says.
Of course. There’s always a corresponding family memory whenever things are awkward for her. I wonder if it’s the same for Arizona when she’s at college. If everything reminds her of me. I hope that’s the case.
I rub my eyes and try to adjust for the hundredth time to Karissa in our kitchen. I wonder if it will ever feel normal. Seeing her now I want to shove her back into her own kitchen, her own space.
“You are getting so punked out!” she says, touching my eyebrow ring. “I’ve always wanted to do that. Stupid acting.”
“Stupid acting,” I repeat like a robot.
“I love you,” she says, and it’s light, with a giggle, the kind of love you! I’ve written at the ends of text messages or said when hugging someone good-bye even if I haven’t meant it.
But still. I don’t want to hear it.
Arizona looks like she is getting strangled, and I guess she sort of is.
“I should go home,” Roxanne says. They see the strangeness in Karissa’s eyes too—something in between elation and depression—a sparkle that could be tears or joy. It’s uncomfortable, not knowing where someone is on that spectrum.
“I’m not really in the mood for drinking,” Arizona says.
“I can make a virgin!” Karissa says. She’s plastered. The wedding gowns we bought are hanging from the curtain rod by the fridge. She’s unzipped them so they are on full display, and I wonder if she wants Arizona to be pissed, or if she’s actually that naive.
I’m a little bit terrified about the possibility that Karissa is going to tell them all about our shopping trip and that the extra wedding gown is mine.
“Look,” Arizona says. “If we talk, will you remember what we talked about when you sober up?” She’s looking at the dresses but talking to Karissa. “Or are you too blasted? Are you, like, blackout right now? Or can we do a conversation?”
I’m vibrating inside, like my stomach and heart and spine are leaning against a washing machine on a heavy cycle.
“You don’t want to start the day with serious talk, do you?” Karissa says, making her eyes wide and licking salt from her fingers. “I am not in serious talk mode right now, ladyfriend.” She pours herself another margarita and slides one across the counter to me too. With Arizona and Karissa both looking at me, it’s impossible to decide if sipping is a good idea. I roll the glass between the palms of my hands instead. Seems like a compromise. “My dad had a saying—margaritas and bad moods don’t mix,” Karissa says. I cringe.
“Please don’t call me ladyfriend,” Arizona says. When she and I shared a room years ago, she drew a line in thick black marker across our light-green rug. One side was mine, one side was hers, and we weren’t allowed to cross the line. I feel like Arizona has her marker out again today, and she’s drawing another thick, uncrossable line.
“It can be a really good idea to talk things through,” Roxanne says. I think she and Arizona have rehearsed versions of this scenario. They seem to be unsurprised by the twists and turns.
Roxanne takes another step toward the door, and I wonder when her cue to leave is.