Honey Girl(3)

“We were outside,” Grace says. We were outside an illuminated, plastic church. We were behind roses and weeds and long lilac stems with just the smell of blooming desert flowers and sage and cheap metal. She remembers the keys suddenly; it burns like a brand against her skin, hidden under her shirt. “I think I was so drunk I fell over.”

“You fell over.” Ximena looks unimpressed. “You came back with that girl? The one you met?”

“Yeah?”

“Was she here, too?” Agnes asks, looking around like someone will jump out of the closet. “It was loud when you came in for the night.”

“After ignoring our texts,” Ximena adds. She gears herself up for a rant. “What the hell would I look like on Dateline talking about how you disappeared in Las Vegas? Colonel would kill me for losing his kid. And when would I have time to film my segment? I work soul-crushing hours, Porter. No time to get my hair and nails done before I make my television debut as the distraught best friend.”

“Why am I not the distraught best friend?” Agnes asks. “I can cry on command. What can you do?”

“You need help,” Ximena says seriously, but doesn’t move when Agnes smiles and leans on her shoulder.

“My therapist would be thrilled to hear you say so,” Agnes says. She looks at Grace, who straightens up under sharp eyes. She keeps her face blank. You have a secret, Agnes mouths, and Grace looks away.

“As you can see, I made it back just fine,” Grace says dryly, “and alone. So, now that nobody will have to mourn me, tell me again when we have to be at the airport?”

“Again?” Ximena ask incredulously at the same time Agnes yells, “Doppelg?nger!”

“An hour,” Ximena repeats. She stands up, hand coming up over Grace’s forehead. “Did that girl give you something? You made us memorize the travel schedules, Porter.”

“We had to recite them before we could leave the apartment,” Agnes adds. “What was her name anyway? You’re fucking lovestruck.”

Grace jerks back, away from Ximena’s probing fingers and Agnes’s eyes. “I don’t have time to be lovestruck. It was only one night.”

“One hell of a night,” Agnes murmurs, hidden from view as Ximena plucks petals from Grace’s hair and inspects her pupils. “Let it be known to the court that my question was not answered.”

“They’d never let you be a lawyer,” Ximena mutters, a smile just for Grace hidden between them. “You didn’t answer, though,” she says, face softening once she confirms Grace is Grace and is not drugged or cloned. “And you did look a little smitten. Mostly drunk, but kind of smitten.”

Grace sighs. She hears the echoes of laughter from dancing in the middle of a sidewalk. Giggling like—like newlyweds, pressed close together as they left the church. “I was not smitten,” she says, suddenly desperate to keep it—this—to herself. “And I don’t think I even found out her name.”

“Ugh,” Ximena says. “For all you know she could have been The One, and you don’t even know her name. How can I live vicariously through your relationship without a name?”

Grace rolls her eyes. “You don’t,” she says simply. “You can live vicariously in the lobby while I get dressed.”

Everything rushes back to her, all the things that make up Grace Porter. Diligence. Efficiency. Details. “God, we have to be at the airport in an hour. Have you guys packed? Agnes, check under the bed, I don’t feel like calling back here to have them ship one of your shoes or something. And, if you took anything from the minibar, you are paying for it. Ximena—”

“There you are, conejito,” Ximena cuts in, patting her cheek and smiling. “I’ll get our brat together. You get dressed. I’ll call for a cab in—”

“Fifteen minutes,” Grace says. “That’s all I need, swear.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Ximena repeats, back in their natural rhythm. Grace feels her chest loosen and her breath return, slow and steady, as Ximena kisses her nose quick and disappears out the door. “C’mon, little demon.”

Agnes crosses her arms, reminding Grace of the three years between them. “Why do you get a cute nickname, and I get ‘little demon’?”

Grace laughs. “The better question would be why are you a little demon?”

Agnes humphs. She takes her time as she leaves the room. Grace turns her back, trying to get everything in her bag, folded and tidy. “Hey, Porter,” she says.

“Hmm?”

“You might wanna hide this from Ximena.” She pauses. “Unless you’re ready to explain why you have a ring on your finger.”

Grace whirls around. Agnes is holding the photograph, one eyebrow raised.

“Don’t—” Grace starts, her mind moving faster than her tongue. Don’t what? Don’t tell anybody about the accidental marriage? The nameless girl that carries a matching black ring on her left hand? Don’t, she says, but there is no finish.

“Hey,” Agnes says. She comes close, and she’s trembling and—no, that’s you trembling—goes eye level with Grace. “The good thing about putting up with me for so long,” she says carefully, “is that now you have my morally gray and questionable loyalty. You get me?”