Page 6 of A Thousand Little Goodbyes

She also didn’t hesitate to pull any punches.

“If you were at home with Kat right now, what would she be doing?” Scarlett asked. She clucked her tongue in a warning before Chrissie could reply. “And don’t tell me she’d be doing something saintly like her homework or helping you make dinner.Truthfully.”

Truthfully, Kat was probably still at volleyball practice, but that wasn’t what Scarlett wanted to hear.

“Belittling my every life choice and making me feel guilty for existing,” Chrissie said obediently.

“In other words…”

“Struggling to survive as a sixteen-year-old whose head is full of social media and whose body is full of hormones.”

“So close, and yet so very far away.”

“Trying to exist in a world that’s slowly disintegrating into axerothermic ball of climate change.”

Scarlett made the sound of buzzer with her mouth. Chrissie didn’t want tothinkthe next part, let alone say it out loud, but she had the feeling her friend wouldn’t relent until she did.

“She’d be acting like an entitled brat,” she admitted, her guilt its own xerothermic ball lodged deep in her gut. “And she wouldn’t let up until one of us was in tears. Probably me. It’s usually me.”

Scarlett beamed at her friend as though she’d just won the final round ofJeopardy. “That’s my girl! I would’ve just said the word ‘bitch’ and been done with it, but you’ve never been one to cut corners. Either way, consider this your break from responsibility and put that mom instinct away. I think I see a gas station next to the motel. Let’s check it out before we head to the hot springs. What are the chances they have any bottles of wine that cost more than eight dollars a pop?”

Chrissie gave in the same way she always did: inevitably.

“Slim to none,” she said as she followed her friend and continued dragging the dented trunk across the parking lot. “But we both know long odds have never stopped you before.”

* * *

To Chrissie’s relief, the Crane Hot Springs were a quiet, rustic set of pools set far enough outside town that you could see the entire night sky twinkling off in the distance.

“Hmm,” Scarlett said, her nose wrinkled as she stood taking it all in. “Not very glamorous, is it?”

“You’re at a hot spring in southeastern Oregon, not the Turkish thermal pools. I don’t know what you were expecting.” Chrissie led the way down the path to where the entry tickets were sold. A huge sign warned them that no alcohol was allowed, but Scarlett had already transferred their wine—twelve bucks each, thank you very much—into a pair of brightly stickered water bottles, so she wasn’t worried aboutgetting caught. As a teenager, Scarlett had been the first to discover that you could steal about a quarter of your dad’s whiskey and replace it with water before he got suspicious; as a twentysomething concertgoer, she’d basically pioneered the art of smuggling in liquor with tampon flasks.

Not that Chrissie had much experience with either of these things. Her late teens and early twenties had been spent up to her ears in diapers and baby formula, her days and nights so blurred together that she sometimes wondered how she’d managed to make it through in one piece.

“Y’all can change in those rooms over there, and then you’re free to access either of the main pools,” the woman behind the ticket counter said as she wrapped bands around their wrists and ushered them through. “We only ask that you pee in the toilets and stay hydrated.”

“Ah, yes. The two cardinal rules of any activity worth doing,” Scarlett said, winking at the woman as they passed into the damp, white-tiled changing room. “You should cross-stitch that and put in on a pillow, Chrissie.”

Since it was Chrissie’s invariable custom to cross-stitch pillows and give them as gifts for every holiday, celebration, or event, she didn’t take any offense at this comment. People loved her pillows. Even Kat still used the one she’d made that read,Wait a Sec, I’m Busy Overthinking Things.

To Chrissie’s surprise, Scarlett angled her steps toward one of the private stalls against the back wall.

“Where are you going? I thought for sure you’d try and look for my twin’s head again,” Chrissie teased as Scarlett locked the door behind her. Then, when Scarlett didn’t respond except to start rummaging around in her bag, she asked, “Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine. My new suit is a little tricky to put on, that’s all. I don’t need you watching me bend and stretch my way into it.”

Scarlett wasn’t normally the type to be squeamish about herbody—she always said that a childhood spent with medical professionals treating her like a sack of rotting meat rendered modesty superfluous—but Chrissie understood her friend’s reservations once she strode out of the changing room in a formfitting black two-piece with a high halter neckline.

“Scarlett!” She practically squealed the two syllables of her friend’s name. “Did you get a boob job and not tell me?”

Scarlett turned sideways, one hand on her stomach and the other on her back as she thrust her chest out. Now that the sweatshirt wasn’t hiding her figure, Chrissie could see that what had once been a pair of what Scarlett calledA-minus cupswas now a heavily weightedC plus.

“Is it that obvious?” she asked.

“To me, yeah. I can’t believe you got surgery and didn’t tell me. Can I touch them?”

Scarlett jumped back as if burned. “No, you can’t touch them.” As if shocked by the harsh note in her own voice, she immediately dissolved into her rich peal of laughter. “Okay, maybe ask me again after we finish our water bottles. But when are we gonna talk about what’s happening over on that side of the room? So much for not showing your stomach in public.”