Rhode trip

For days, a flurry of text messages pinged my phone at all hours. 

College roommates had planned an impromptu “Rhode” trip, and they asked me to join. 

The joy was palpable. Our phones parsed potential itineraries that included 360º views of vacation rentals, and menus of interesting restaurants, wineries, and clubs. Did we want to do any Historic Homes tours or scenic trails? They were all within walking distance. 

I answered every text with what I hoped would sound like an excited amenability rather than reserved detachment. 

Or worse. Outright fear.

It’s not that I didn’t care what we did, it’s just that I was happy to go along with anything … even if it was outside my comfort zone.

Like … yeah …I’m older now … and my body has delineated new and lower tolerances for things like noise and red wine, and it’s been a minute since I helped these ladies close down a night club … but I think we’re mature enough now to make some accommodations.

Even though I am still the oldest at …  twenty-seven.

Also, I checked: The bars all close at 1 a.m. posing no risk that we would find ourselves wandering around the downtown, in some state of inebriation, looking for all-night diners at 4 a.m.

I haven’t seen them much over the years, but when we do get together, it strikes me as stunning how little these women have changed. And not just on the outside. They have the energy of teenagers and the same verve for the excitement of life.

But as the approaching date drew near, the text exchanges stopped.

Fear struck my heart. 

The election?

I scoured their social media sites. A digital detective looking for clues. No sign of political leanings. None at all. 

Unlike mine.

What if they voted for TFG?

What if we couldn’t coexist in an off-season VRBO?

What if I couldn’t move forward with bygones?

What if it’s too soon to try?

I told my husband … maybe I would bag the weekend. Feign and illness. Pay my share and see myself out?

But as I was planning my exit, a new flurry of plans erupted. Arrivals, departures, carpooling specifics. The weather looks fine. Maybe we can stay an extra day. 

Before I could say I was feeling feverish, I was feverishly agreeing to all of it.

And somehow, within those few seconds, I was back in our old apartment. Remembering who we were: different in almost every way, but strong, vibrant, and bonded by the experiences we shared. So many I had forgotten about. So many that were clearly etched.

I was always the stand-off-ish emo-girl, fretting about the world going to hell in a handbasket. And they were always the free and fun-loving ones, who kept drawing me out of myself. 

We never even so much as the thought of forgiving another’s trespasses, since we hadn’t let them fester. Our differences weren’t something we ever really needed to overcome.

For two days, we ate and drank, laughed and cried, and we walked on cliffs instead of eggs.

It was glorious. And I was grateful to be there.