"Mail call! Bunnyhop, here's your momma's weekly complaining about not giving her grandkids. Zigzag, here's your momma's weekly accusations that you probably are, all across the galaxy, like a massive slut. Tapout — dunno what this is, looks fancy. Did you shoot something that's gonna cause an incident?"
"Get rekt," Tapout says cheerily. The envelope is fancy — heavy, ivory-coloured, textured. She uses a knife to carefully slit it open, that's how fancy it is. (She licks the gravy off the knife first.) She reads the card inside it, several times, then ignores everyone asking or heckling about it, stuffs it back in the envelope, and leaves without even having her pudding cup.
Bingley eats it for her, then goes to check if she's okay.
"Bing," Tapout says solemnly, looking down where she seems to have thrown all the clothes she owns onto the floor, "I need you to come shopping with me. Because you have taste and shit."
"Are you having a breakdown?" Bingley asks.
"Not yet." Tapout shoves the envelope at her.
"Is this — wow, this is a wedding invitation." Bingley peers at Tapout over the top of it, surreptitiously. "Okay, yeah," she concedes, "you're gonna need some help. We upstaging the bride, or what?"
"Nah," Tapout says. "Hendriks is an old buddy from K-Mac. I mean. Half the unit woulda with her, given the chance, but she was strictly business, you know?"
"Ah, old crush," Bingley says sagely. "And you want to turn up looking less like a regulation sandbag than usual. Fuck all the bridesmaids, or something, to prove how over it you are."
"With a plus one," Tapout says. "...To prove how over it and also how fucking grownup and together I am now."
"Can't wait to see what poor sap you're gonna con into that," Bingley says.
"Haha yeah," Tapout says, nudging her 'slutting it up on shore leave' dress with the toe of her boot and uneasily not looking in Bingley's direction. "I got a flawless plan for selling somebody on it, don't worry!"
