today, I threaded long banana slices on each skewer, topped them with a strawberry, then covered some in white chocolate and some in dark chocolate. I’ve made a lot of things in my life, but these fruit and chocolate penises might be some of my best work.
Don shakes his head. “I saw them on the platter in there. All of them together, with the spikes sticking out? It’s . . . disturbing.”
“They’re not spikes, they’re skewers,” I clarify, but Don shakes his head again.
“It’s too much,” he mutters.
I hear a noise outside and run to the window, where I push the curtain aside. “She’s here, she’s here, she’s here!”
Penis spikes forgotten, Don looks energized. “What do we do? Do we hide?”
“Um . . . I don’t think so. She knows this is her bachelorette party. But we should do something!”
Don and I look helplessly at each other as the door creaks open and Annie steps in.
“Uh . . .” she says, taking in the streamers in every shade of pink hanging from the ceiling.
“Surprise!” Don and I yell, which makes her jump.
“Wow, um, okay!” She laughs, then hugs each of us. “I thought we were having a movie night! You guys didn’t have to do this! And . . .”
She steps back, noticing the cardboard cutout of Drew in the corner. “What is this?”
“Do you like it?” Don asks.
She walks over to it and rubs her hands over its smooth abs. “Aw. This is when he was all buff.”
When Drew and Annie first met, he was coming off an action movie that required him to be in intense physical shape that was basically unsustainable unless he kept working out three times a day and eating nothing but chicken breasts. So now he has a slightly rounder face and significantly less defined abs (not that I’ve seen his abs; I’m relying on hearsay). Annie, who’s always liked her rom-com heroes on the dorkier side, much prefers him this way.
“I love it,” she says. “I’m gonna put this in our apartment in LA.”
“I bet Drew will be so excited,” I say.
“He’ll hate it,” she says with a smile.
“Well,” Don says, “as much as I’d love to stay and have a girls’ night, Tyler and I have plans.”
“You should stay!” I say, handing Annie a headband that’s topped with penis-antennae.
“I never imagined my uncle would be at my bachelorette party, but honestly, it feels right,” Annie says, sliding the headband on.
“It does.” Don nods. “But I promised my lady pizza, and pizza she shall get.”
Don leaves, and I show Annie into the kitchen, where I’ve arranged a spread of food on the kitchen island.
“Not all of them are penis-themed,” I say, gesturing toward the fruit skewers. “But I did try to fit the theme.”
“Last-night-of-freedom fries.” Annie reads the card in front of a platter of hand-cut baked fries with a trio of dipping sauces.
“I know this isn’t the night before your wedding and the concept that your ‘freedom’ ends with matrimony is outdated and patriarchal, but, like, it’s a fun name.”
“It is,” Annie agrees. “Nonalcoholic Jell-O shots? So . . .”
“So it’s Jell-O in little cups, yes.”
She looks at the next plate. “Matri-baloney sandwiches?”
“I was running out of ideas,” I admit. “And I know you can’t eat deli meats, that’s why there’s only half a sandwich there. Don ate the other half.”
“Chloe.” Annie looks at me with an unreadable expression on her face, and at first I think she’s mad.
“I mean . . . I can make another sandwich if you want. You can eat deli meat if it’s heated, right? Fried matri-baloney sandwiches? Is that a thing?”
But then she crushes me in a hug, and I realize that she’s crying. “You are the best friend in the world, you know that?”
I hug her back. “I’ve suspected it for a while, but it’s nice to have confirmation.”
She reaches behind my back and grabs one of the fries off the tray. “You made me a multitude of sauces? You know how much I love dips.”
“Your love of dips is one of your most defining personality traits,” I say. “Also, let’s order pizza, because I don’t want to eat that baloney sandwich.”
“Deal.”
We pick at the plate of fries and eat an unhealthy amount of Jell-O, avoiding the fruit skewers (turns out Uncle Don is right . . . they are kind of unappetizing), until the doorbell rings.
“I sincerely hope that’s a real pizza delivery man and not a pizza-delivery-themed stripper,” Annie says, heading toward the