“You like Roza Vallo?” Wren stared askance. I knew her skepticism stemmed from my uncool professional outfit: slacks and a pale blue button-up shirt. She loomed over me, a tall girl who wore platforms because she didn’t give a fuck about towering over everyone else.
“She’s my favorite author.” I calculated and continued: “She’s a big inspiration for me. For my writing, I mean.”
Wren’s ruby lips curved. “Me too.” She leaned in, eyes narrowing. “I kind of love your eyebrows. Where do you get them done?”
I fought not to touch them selfconsciously. Was she referring to my inexpert plucking? “I do them myself.”
“Nice.” She yawned. “Lord, I’m hungover. Let’s get lunch.”
Though it was barely eleven, we’d soon found ourselves slurping spicy noodles while talking nonstop about our current writing projects. We were both working on novels, and both extremely serious about them. That afternoon I sent my first email to her, containing a link to a Roza Vallo article that explored the feminist themes underpinning her novels’ use of period blood. I also boldly joked about my boss’s cleavage. She responded almost immediately, and we started a spate of witty exchanges that I spent much more time and energy on than my actual job.
Two months later Wren had asked me to join her writing group, since their third person had dropped out. There I’d met Ursula. She was nearly ten years older than us and had a calm self-confidence that I could only dream of. At this point I’d been blatantly copying Wren—which meant spending whole days at Goodwill, looking for clothes she might admire. But Ursula was her own person. She had her own neon-colored, clashing style and wrote intensely personal pieces about being Chinese American, queer, and a fat activist. She was so different from Wren and yet was the one person Wren ever seemed in awe of.
The music switched off, and Pete’s next question rang too loud in my ear. “How long have you known her?”
I blinked before realizing he was talking about Ursula, not Wren. “I guess about eight years?” The crowd from the bar oozed into the main room.
“Huh. Back before she was famous.”
“Yep.” Even back then I’d known Ursula would find success. I’d always thought her essays were good enough to be published in the New York Times, so it wasn’t a surprise when one actually was. After her Modern Love piece came out, she got snatched up by an agent and editor who fast-tracked her first book of essays. That had been three years ago; she was now publishing her second.
“You recognize anyone?” Pete scanned the crowd.
I forced myself to look. Hordes of hip people, many of them young, early twenties, purposefully plain with severely shorn hair and no makeup. That level of confidence—at such a young age!—amazed me. I couldn’t leave my apartment without a full face of makeup.
“Not really,” I was saying, but then I heard it—a familiar laugh. About ten feet away stood Ridhi, one of Wren’s choice friends. I shifted so that I was partially hidden by Pete.
“Hi, everyone!” a female voice crackled over a loudspeaker. “We’re going to start!” The crowd shuffled and I saw with relief that Ridhi and her group were moving ahead. My stomach dropped as I recognized several others with her, including another of Wren’s good friends, Craig. He wore a slim olive suit and was murmuring into Ridhi’s ear with a wide grin.
“Welcome, everyone.” Ursula’s agent, Melody, had a commanding voice and everyone quieted down immediately. As she introduced Ursula, I kept an eye on the crew. Watching them gave me an unexpectedly powerful ache. The friend breakup with Wren hadn’t just been between the two of us; I’d lost all our mutual friends too.
I should’ve known; it was unthinkable now that I hadn’t. After all, the night of Wren’s birthday had ended in arcs of blood, splattering black in the moonlight.
People were applauding. I shook myself and clapped along as Ursula strode across the stage in iridescent platform boots. “Guys, seriously, thank you so much for being here.” Her low voice was often sardonic, but now it was resonant with sincerity. “You are all amazing people and sometimes I have to pinch myself that I have such an incredible support network.” As Ursula continued speaking, I took another gulp of beer, realizing it was almost gone. I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and the alcohol was making me woozy in the overheated room.
“Okay!” Ursula raised her glass. “I know at book parties you’re supposed to read an excerpt and blah blah blah, but why don’t we skip that boring part tonight and just party?” She laughed at the ensuing wolf whistles. “Awesome. Let’s go ahead and mingle, then! Oh, and buy a book or three!” Amidst cheers, Ursula left the stage and the crowd dispersed, many making for the bar. I watched Wren’s crew join the signing line, still oblivious to my presence. If Wren was here, she’d be with them. So she wasn’t here. She must be traveling, at a photo shoot, doing something she was probably already posting about. And, no, I wasn’t going to immediately check. The confirmation made me relieved but also unexpectedly disappointed.
“This is wild,” I told Pete, attempting to distract myself as we joined the back of the signing line. “Ursula’s last reading was in the basement of a bookstore in Greenpoint with bottles of Two-Buck Chuck.”
“At least they had free alcohol.” Pete held up his own empty glass. “Want another IPA?”
“Sure.” Finally, I could relax. This called for at least another drink, maybe more.
Ursula’s publicist strode down the line with a stack of books. I bought two copies, one for Pete. The smooth, weighty hardcover showed a picture of Ursula on a vintage red-velvet couch. She sat cross-legged in ripped denim overalls, gazing unabashedly into the camera. A hungry, wolfish feeling reared up in my gut. What would it feel like to hold your own book in your hands for the first time? For it to be a physical object, a thing that people paid for?
I glanced up, feeling eyes on me. The crew was staring at me, surprised and faintly disgusted, like I was a racoon that had wandered into their living room. Only Craig was looking at someone else—
Wren. He was looking at Wren.
The world blurred, and for a moment it was just me and her. There was something glinting in her eyes, a reflection of the pain and loss that I so keenly felt. A sob rose up in my throat at the realization that she felt it, too, that she did miss me, that she, too, wanted nothing more than for us to grasp each other in a tight, desperate hug, pulled back together like two powerful magnets.
But then a wall came down. The pain shifted into something else, something darker: revulsion.
Don’t touch me. I’d been drunk that night but could still remember her voice with perfect clarity. How she’d hissed the words from between clenched teeth. How literally moments later she’d been lying in a spreading pool of blood.
I felt frozen, unable to look away. Wren turned and said something to Craig. He laughed and looked relieved. The others moved inward towards her, though Ridhi glowered at me a few seconds longer.
The beer gurgled in my stomach. I turned and raced towards the bathroom, making it to a stall just in time. Yellow liquid frothed in the bowl. I sat on my knees and wiped my mouth. I was still clutching the books.