Honey Girl(12)

The universe says, This is it, places, everyone. The universe says, This is your time. Grace says, “I got married in Vegas,” and the world doesn’t end.

Agnes blinks. “Whoa,” she says. “Are we really doing this now? Shit, I thought we were going to actually have to stage an intervention to get you to talk.”

“Agnes,” Grace says, staring down at the empty streets.

Agnes leans in. She is small, too-skinny. Her bleach-blond hair in its sharp, blunt cut doesn’t make her look soft or approachable. She is neither, but she moves closer, and Grace takes it. She takes her edges and her sharpness and turns them into things that feel safe.

“You’re being serious?”

“Do I look serious?”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious,” Agnes shoots back. “I saw the picture in your hotel room, okay? You know that. But, like, you didn’t, right? You didn’t.”

Grace pulls out her necklace. The gold ring glints under the moonlight. “I got married,” she says. She lets out a disbelieving, hysterical laugh. “I spent eleven years proving that I was the perfect daughter. I worked day and night to prove myself to everyone. Because that was my perfect, clear-cut plan. And then one night I got drunk-married in Las Vegas to a total stranger, and here I am.”

Agnes stares like she is looking at an impostor. “Ximena!” she yells suddenly, and the alley cats start to scatter. The distant sound of dogs barking echoes up to them. Lights flicker on, and someone from the complex across from them raps on their window.

“You cannot scream,” Grace says. “Jesus Christ.”

“Had to,” Agnes says. “This requires backup.”

Ximena sticks her head out the sliding door. Half her face is wrinkled with sleep. “What the hell are you doing?” she asks. “You need tea?”

Agnes holds up her mug.

“Alcohol?”

Agnes pulls a flask from underneath her covers, and Ximena laughs. “Okay,” she says, “so we’re covered on both fronts. Why are you screaming?”

She shoves between the two of them, their solid and steady person. They lean on her, and she lets them.

“Hey,” she says quietly. “Who’s having the crisis?”

“For once,” Agnes says, “it’s not me.” She sticks her tongue out at Grace. “Go ahead, Porter. Tell Mom what you did.”

Grace blinks. “You know,” she starts, “for someone who follows Ximena around like a lovesick, useless bisexual, you sure do have the weirdest pet names for her.”

Ximena moves as if she expected Agnes to lash out, claws formed. Agnes squirms in her grip, and Ximena giggles as Grace leans away. “Calm down, Aggie,” she says, voice gentle and soft and open, like it was the first few months Agnes started living with them, eyes haunted and wary. “God, I think you scratched me.”

Agnes huffs. She makes a show of covering herself back up until only her ice-blue eyes are showing. She glares at Grace. “Fine,” she says. “I was trying to be a supportive friend, but that’s canceled now. Grace got drunk-married in Vegas.”

“Asshole,” Grace hisses, and Agnes grins with all her teeth.

Grace looks at Ximena. She is Grace’s steady thing, her roots digging into the earth like an orange grove tree. Grace waits and Ximena’s fingers tangle in her own. I’m here, they say. Give me a minute, I’m here.

Grace folds up and digs nails into her palm. “Please don’t be mad. I know it was stupid.”

Ximena pulls Grace in. Tucked into her tight, unrelenting grip, Grace tries to calm herself, desperate and trembling. “Hey, you’re fine.”

“I can’t believe this,” Grace gasps out. The words tumble into Ximena’s pajamas. All their fear and fright embedded into cotton fabric. “I fucked up so bad. Colonel’s gonna kill me. I’m supposed to—I’m supposed to—”

“Shut up for a second,” Ximena says. She hums, this hushed, calming sound. Grace has heard it before. She hears it when she catches Ximena at work humming a tune to her last, sleeping patient. She hears it in the mornings, while Ximena peters around the kitchen, and they both pretend to ignore Agnes staring angrily at her meds before she takes them in a fit of spite.

Grace trembles and Grace shakes and Ximena hums, sings this lullaby that they have come to recognize as safe. Agnes reaches out, gently scratches at Grace’s back. The sensation makes her shiver.

“You good?” Ximena asks, and Grace nods. “Positive? You don’t have to be good yet.” She taps a finger four times against Grace’s pulse. Love. You. So. Much. Love you so much it hurts.

“I’m good,” she croaks out, but she doesn’t move from her spot. Ximena is warm; her steadiness comes with roots that are old and ancient and long. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Ximena says. “Just tell us how you went from drunk to married and didn’t say anything.”

It’s been weeks of staring at the ceiling, counting the stars instead of sleeping. In between searching open job positions and fruitlessly closing the tabs, she memorizes the words that were written on the hotel’s stationery. She memorizes them with her fingers until their ink starts to stain her own hands.

She says, “It was the girl from the bar. The girl that bought me a drink. Nobody’s ever—” Been so into me. Leaned in close, but not too close. Asked if it was okay, like Grace could decide and not have to follow a plan for the night. “She was pretty. She was funny. We danced, and I was so fucking drunk, but it wasn’t bad, you know?”