The Writing Retreat(15)

“Um, yes. That’s exactly what I need.” Poppy strolled towards the table. “How are you, it’s so good to meet you! I’m Poppy!”

The woman by the food wore red cat-eye glasses and her box braids were twisted into a high bun. “Good to meet you too. I’m Keira. She/her.” A serene smile lit her face. She wore all black: chunky sweater, jeans, and a cashmere scarf.

“Taylor.” The tattooed girl waved from the couch. “She/her. Sorry, y’all, I’d get up, but this is the most comfortable I’ve been in years.” Her voice held a faint Southern drawl.

“I’m Alex. She/her.” I felt a brief flush of relief to be able to say my pronouns easily. Sharon had asked us to start using them at work six months before when introducing ourselves in author meetings. It had struck me as ironic that Sharon was at all concerned about being “woke” when she’d only ever hired BIPOC people at the assistant level.

To be fair, I’d only ever thought about race—particularly, being white—within the last few years. It had made me realize that my whole life, I’d existed in mostly white spaces. Growing up in suburbs around the Midwest, my schools and neighborhoods had been glaringly white. College classes had been the same. In New York, Ursula had been my first close nonwhite friend, and she’d only expressed thoughts on race to me within her essays. I remembered reading about a racist comment directed at her on the subway and feeling shocked. Publishing was mostly white—ditto my neighborhood, East Williamsburg.

Even now, it appeared that Keira was the only woman of color in the group. That was surprising. Or… not?

“Oh. Yeah.” Poppy looked stricken. “Sorry. Preferred pronouns. She… how do you say it?”

“She/her.” Taylor evaluated her, then smiled kindly. “You can just say pronouns. They’re not preferred, they just are, you know? Thanks for sharing.”

“Sure.” Poppy accepted a glass of wine from Keira, cheeks pink.

“Want one?” Keira asked me.

“I’d love one, thanks.” The wine was a dark maroon, the type that always reminded me of blood. I shook off the morbid connection. Wine would be nice, would cool down my insecurities. I just had to be sure to eat too. I dropped some crackers and cheese on a small crystal plate.

“Poppy—that’s a cool name.” Taylor settled back onto the couch, sitting cross-legged. I sat beside her.

“Thanks, I know, it’s kind of different, right?” Poppy plopped onto a chair near Keira, nibbling on a strawberry. “Irish.”

“I thought you said it was Scottish?” I asked.

“Oh my god, yeah, sorry.” She chuckled, rolling her eyes. “It’s such a mishmash that I usually just pick one country to tell people. Just to make it easier.”

“I get it,” Taylor said. “I’m the same: ancestors from all over Europe.” She studied me. “Where’s your family from, Alex? You look kind of French to me.”

“Oh, wow, really?” I giggled nervously. “I don’t consider myself particularly chic.” I’d spent a comical amount of time that morning trying to figure out what to wear, and I still felt somewhat frumpy in my jeans and polka-dotted sweater.

“Take the compliment.” Taylor grinned.

“Thank you. Um, I’m German and Hungarian.” Mom had been born in Budapest after the war but during the Soviet occupation. Her parents—both Holocaust survivors—had died when she was in her twenties, and she rarely spoke about her past. I’d had to glean details when she was slightly drunk and in a chatty mood.

“Hungarian like Roza.” Taylor tipped her glass at me. “That’s a nice connection.”

“Where in Germany?” Keira asked.

“I don’t know, actually. It’s my dad’s side. And he’s not really in my life.” I wondered if it was too much to share, but Keira gave me a sympathetic glance. “But it’s fine,” I went on. “Do you have ties to Germany?”

“I studied in Berlin for a while.” She smiled.

“Keira, where’s your family from originally?” Poppy asked, chewing.

“Senegal.”

“I’m guessing they didn’t come here by choice,” Taylor said.

I froze, cracker halfway to my mouth.

“Nope.” Keira’s voice was mild.

“Sorry.” Taylor sighed. “I just hate talking around that shit. Pretending slavery never happened. I deal with that enough in my hometown.”

Keira shrugged. “Hey, at least I wasn’t the only one here asked where I’m from—where I’m really from. Even in LA, I get that a lot.”

“So you’re in LA?” I asked Keira, wanting to move us onto a safer topic. Did Taylor really have to bring up slavery, especially with Keira being the only Black person in the room?

“Yep. Just flew in this morning.” She popped an olive into her mouth.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“Hold up.” Taylor clapped her hands. “Since we’re all here, how about we save time and go around and do a little intro? Where we live, what we do, all that fun stuff.”

Since we’re all here. They didn’t know Wren was coming. And maybe—chance of chances—she wasn’t? It was hard if not impossible to believe Wren’s fangirl adoration of Roza had waned. But her life was different now. Maybe another trip or opportunity had come up that she couldn’t turn down. I felt a twinge of hope in my chest.