For the Love of Friends

Shrieks of laughter started filtering through the closed hotel room door. Ugh, I wrote. Amy and her Brownie troop are here. Gotta go.

Have fun, he said again. I pocketed my phone and opened the door to let the girls in—Amy, three bridesmaids, and six other friends, two of whom I had known since they were babies, which was approximately five minutes ago. Four others had been her friends since high school. I had met them, but I had already been out of college by the time Amy started high school. One was Madison, freshly tanned from her “first honeymoon,” as they were calling their week at the resort in Mexico after the wedding. They would take their “real honeymoon” later in the summer in Greece. Apparently my brother’s job paid much better than mine. The other two girls I had seen at Amy’s shower that morning but couldn’t have greeted by name if my life depended on it.

“Lily!” Amy screamed, hugging me like she hadn’t seen me earlier that morning. She had a bottle of champagne in her left hand. “Look what Grandma gave me for tonight!” She spun around, taking in all of the decorations in the hotel room. “Oh my God, you guys! I’m going to cry! I love it!” She ran over to the penis pi?ata. “Quick, someone take my picture!” She opened her mouth very wide next to it, while three girls snapped pictures of her. I tried not to roll my eyes.

Once she had selected her favorite of the pictures, sent it to herself, and uploaded it to both her Instagram and Snapchat stories, she declared it was time for a drink. I peeked at my watch and saw it was only eight thirty. I was in for a long night.

“Does anyone have a corkscrew?” she asked, holding up the bottle of champagne and pulling the foil off the top.

“I do!” Ashlee pulled one out of her monogrammed “Maid of Honor” bag. “A maid of honor is always prepared.” Ashlee grabbed the champagne bottle and opened her corkscrew as the girls grabbed glasses and chattered excitedly.

“Whoa!” I rushed to Ashlee’s side. “You don’t open champagne with a corkscrew.”

“You don’t?”

I sighed again and looked around the room, then took the bottle from Ashlee, told the girls to have their glasses ready, and expertly opened it, wondering what would have happened had there not been a responsible adult there. I poured a few drops in all of the plastic “bachelorette” cups that were shoved toward me.

“To Amy,” Ashlee declared. “The future Mrs. Gilchrist.”

“To Amy,” everyone echoed.

“Now let’s get drunk!” Amy yelled, and the ensuing shrieks made me worry we were going to have a hotel noise complaint on our hands very soon.



By the time we left for the first bar, I had a splitting headache and had already begun to debate whether Excedrin was a better choice than drinking. But I figured it would be less intense once we were out of that hotel room. Besides, we were going to a bar in Adams Morgan that I used to love hanging out at. Granted, that was when I was Amy’s age, but it would be fun to go back to one of my old haunts, right?

No.

They say you can’t go home again. Well, they lie. You can go home. Going home is fine. Your mom may nag you about being single, but at least she’ll cook for you and feign concern while bemoaning your failure to produce grandchildren. You can totally go home.

What you cannot do, under any circumstances, is return to your favorite bar after not having gone for the last six years. Because the same people are still there. No, not the exact same people, because the exact same people are now your age and probably home with their spouses, babies, and dogs. But the same generic, midtwenties crowd is absolutely still there and suddenly you’re the oldest person in the room other than three creepy guys, one of the bouncers, and the dude who is clearly the owner. But unlike the other geriatrics in the room, I was wearing a belt made out of condoms.

And in the time it took for me to get myself a single drink, one of the girls had begun making out with someone in a corner, another was sobbing at a table, and Amy had some guy nibbling on her candy necklace. Not my circus, I told myself, taking a sip of my martini. Not my monkeys.

I made a face. This was a terrible martini. Of course, when I still drank here, I didn’t drink martinis.

Screw it, I thought, drinking the rest in one long gulp. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

I turned around and ordered two shots of J?germeister. Never a good idea, but maybe being drunk was the way to survive this night. The bartender poured the shots and slid them to me. I took both over to Amy. Half of her candy necklace was missing as she giggled with the guy who had eaten it. Maybe Megan was right and she’s not going to make it to the aisle.

“Come on Ames, it’s shot time,” I said, elbowing past the candy fiend.

“You take shots?”

I rolled my eyes. “Since you were in the third grade. Come on. I’m doing one with you.”

She took the shot glass, clinked glasses with mine, and threw the drink down her throat. “Ugh! What is that?”

I looked at her like she was an alien. “J?ger.”

“People still drink that?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes. That’s what we always did shots of.”

She pouted slightly. “I need some Fireball to get that taste out of my mouth!” As if by magic, two other bridesmaids appeared with shot glasses of the cinnamon liquor she had requested.

My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out to avoid choking the bride. While it may be rude to look at your phone while you’re out, it’s still more polite than publicly killing your sister. It was a text from Alex. How goes it?

Sweet baby Jesus, I wrote back. Save me from these children who don’t even know what J?ger is.

So teach them! Isn’t that your job in this wedding?

I tried. Amy demanded a shot of Fireball immediately after. Did that even exist when we were young?

I think we drank Goldschlager to feel fancy when we wanted something with cinnamon in it back in our day.

I have never felt this old in my life.

Lol. You’re what? 31?

32.

Ahh, I see, Alex replied. You’re ancient. With a granny emoji.

I laughed out loud, then jumped as someone sidled up next to me. “What’s so funny, bridesmaid?” the sidler asked. “Texting your boyfriend?”

I turned to size him up. Way too young for me, of course, but cute. And there was no harm in flirting a little. “No. No boyfriend. Just a friend who agrees it’s ridiculous to wear a condom belt when your sister gets married.”

He nodded at Amy’s veil. “That’s your sister?”

“Yup.”

“Nice. I’m Kevin.”

“Lily.”

“Can I buy you a drink, Lily?” I agreed and he ordered another terrible martini for me and a Bud Light for himself. The drinks came and he paid cash, then clinked his glass against mine. “Cheers.”

I scanned the room quickly. Crying girl was dancing with some guy, making-out girl was still making out, and Amy was laughing with a bunch of her friends, drinking their drinks through penis straws. Everything was under control. I could relax. “So Kevin,” I mused. “What do you do?”

“I’m an intern on Capitol Hill,” he said confidently. This was clearly a line that got him girls. “Still deciding if I want to go the lobbyist route or eventually run for office myself. What about you?”

“PR at the Foundation for Scientific Technology.”

“That’s cool. How long have you been there?”

I knew the truth about my age would shock him, but I did not give the tiniest of rat’s asses what this kid thought. “Ten years. I started straight out of college.”

“Ten years?” he repeated. “I can’t imagine doing anything for ten years.” He leaned in closer. “But that’s what I like about you older women. You know what you want. I always learn a thing or two when I sleep with someone so much older.”

I reeled like he had slapped me. “Have fun with that,” I said and started to walk away.

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