The Writing Retreat(2)
“Thanks. I’ll Venmo you.” I took the glass gratefully and gulped.
“Hmm.” Pete squinted at the crowd like a shipman searching the horizon. “Maybe let’s go over there where it’s more chill.” I followed him into the main room with the stage. We made it to the back wall and both leaned against it with relief. The tightness in my chest eased.
“That’s Ursula, right?” Pete gestured with his glass.
“That’s her.” She stood near the stage, holding court with a semicircle of admirers.
“How’d you meet her again?”
“A writing group. A long time ago.” Seeing her in the flesh—tortoiseshell glasses and animal-print dress against pale tattooed skin and hot-pink hair—made me relax further. It was a bit sad that the fear of seeing Wren had made me forget about the point of this whole event: to celebrate Ursula’s success.
I’d met Ursula through Wren, actually, shortly after meeting Wren at work. An image reared up: Wren in her signature vintage black rabbit fur coat and red lipstick. She’d been assigned to train me as an assistant, though she’d been working at the educational publishing company only a few months longer than me. That first morning with Wren, I’d known—instantly—what becoming friends meant: secret dance parties in abandoned warehouses, madcap dates ending with kisses in forlorn alleys, boozy brunches laughing over the night before. It was as clear as if someone had whispered it into my ear. Wren was a ticket into the life I’d envisioned in my fantasies, staring out of the window of Mom’s broken-down hatchback as we raced over gray plains to get far away from her last disastrous boyfriend. Wren was the tornado that could pick me up and put me down in the midst of a luscious, Technicolor dreamworld.
But first I had to impress her. In an uncharacteristic burst of luck, it had happened before I could even make a plan. Leaning over my desk to help me log in, she’d seen the book I’d set down: Polar Star, the most recent Roza Vallo. I’d already read it, of course, having put a hold on it at the library before it had even come out. But the past few months of job hunting had been demoralizing, and I’d splurged on the gorgeous hardcover during a particularly low day.
“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.