(...)

She’d gotten aggressive with Julia in LA once, drunk and restless and in the thick of it — had shoved her, well, at her, not very effectively, and said, “You know who fucking sucks?” paused for one self-assured moment, hand still on Julia's shoulder, wanting to fucking fight. “Julia Morgan fucking sucks.” Jesus. 

Of course this all has been retold to her at least five times with reenactions, at least ten different spectators— Adrienne can’t remember any of it. And god it’s funny when Julia tries to do her drunk slurry southern accent, “Yeah, fuck Julia,” and dramatically stops herself from falling so everyone always laughs along. 

But nobody else gets the affectionate implication underneath it all, that how far you’ve come, just in the way she looks at her. They just get to laugh.

Now it’s dark out, the light outside the front door only slightly giving shape to the room, and when she sighs aloud it's dead silent except for it. She doesn’t hate anyone anymore at least, and especially not the kind of gaping hate you have for someone you used to love too much. But has she really gotten anywhere? Still not clear on that.