Chapter Three

Kit

Nina delivers a heavy pour of chardonnay to me as I sit cross-legged with a pillow over my thighs, my phone propped on top, swiping through profiles on Hinge.

"Hey bish, he was cute," Nina chimes in, pointing her purple coffin-shaped nail at the screen where the cute guy no longer stares back. I slump against the velvet cushion of her vintage couch and let out a guttural groan.

"He was, but he also looked like a flavor I've already tried," I say, gulping wine and making meaningful eye contact with my best friend. "You know. Vanilla with strawberries on top. That's his vibe."

"You like vanilla. You like strawberries," Nina lists. Her dark brown skin is kissed with this golden apricot blush from Benefit, and she's a got a dramatic neon swoop lining both of her dark, hazel brown eyes. Nina's style is effortlessly artistic and utterly cool. She looks like she just stepped out of a Nike ad, but like, for the expensive kicks, not sportswear.

"And both get boring after a few big bites," I reply. She cackles.

I don't tell her the deeper reason for my meltdown. I can't. Nina has been my best friend since sophomore year of college, when she transferred to Berkeley from some tiny liberal arts college in North Carolina where she grew up. She knows my bra size and my favorite book, has helped me through countless breakups—I introduced her to her talent agent, she introduced me to cheesy bacon grits. But she doesn't know everything there is to know about me, even if she knows more than any of my boyfriends ever have. My heart does a flutter from my nerves, and I decide that's enough of a sign not to push it.

"Vanilla with strawberries on top is not what I need right now."

"You thinking more of a Rocky Road situation?" She gives me a devious smile. I grab my phone off the pillow, tossing the soft, fringy puff in her face.

If Rocky Road is what it takes.

I do like guys. I like abs and strong pecs. Arms that fold around me, making me feel small, feel safe, feel like the ideal. That is also an undeniable fact . I need to run my fingers over a chiseled jawline and feel stubble scrape my neck while he plows me until I forget my name and birth date—

Her fingernails scrape the cold metal clasp of my jean shorts, flicking them open. I feel the memory scamper through me with a shiver up my spine.

Fuck me. What I need is a solid distraction. Something that will push everything else out of my mind.

"Hey lovely," Nina says, her tone gentle but commanding. I look over at her, gulping more wine. "You wanna talk about it?" She means the mom and dad divorce debacle.

"I really don't," I reply.

"You know that means you probably should."

I know—and hate—that she is right. But thinking about the situation with Mom and Dad treads close to territory I am terrified to enter right now. Any question I would have about why Mom did what she did, or how she could, can also be turned back on me. Shut up, brain. Unraveling the notion that I can keep this thing to myself and still live my best life to the fullest is not in the cards—I'd know if it was. Right?

I settle on the one part of this that I feel safe to focus on.

Dad.

"You should have seen his face, Nina. Crushed. The happy, bashful dwarf Dad usually is was replaced by a Gremlin who got fed after midnight," I say, twisting the stem of my wineglass in my fingers. They're handblown, brightly colored glass. Nina got them at the Jackalope Artisan Fair last Christmas, and she only brings them out for special occasions. "He was seething. Smoke-out-his-ears-level pissed off."

"Yeah, but behind that rage is so much hurt and fear," she says thoughtfully. Nina has been in therapy since she lost her brother in a car crash at sixteen. Survivor's remorse, she said, with anxiety and depression like a yoke around her neck. Her ability to psychoanalyze may be armchair, but it's still pretty spot-on.

"He deserves to feel hurt," I reply. And I totally believe that he does, even if the moment I say it out loud my earlobes and chest feel warm with anger. Mom is at fault here, not Dad.

"And your mom still deserves to find her way to her most authentic life," Nina adds, eyebrows rising. "You know I'm right, even if you don't want to admit it yet."

I let out another guttural groan, scrubbing my hands over my face.

"Goddammit, okay, maybe you have a point, but I'm not there yet, not even close." I won't get there sitting here swiping dudes on Hinge or fucking someone hot enough to make me forget. "I need to clear my energy. I need space. I need—"

"To get the fuck out of LA," she finishes. "Didn't you say Millie Morgan inquired about a gig this weekend?"

I perk up. I forgot about the inquiry in all the breakup mess. And, okay, I also like to play hard to get until I make up my mind and am ready to commit. In relationships as well as in professional circumstances. But really, this time I didn't follow up mostly because I was moving out and freaking out, and forgot to check back in on my DMs.

I swipe my phone open again, clicking away from Hinge into Instagram.

Millie and I have crossed paths a few times since she started pushing her brand in a more spirit-centric direction, and I started getting hired to work the most recent crop of beach yoga retreats and Brentwood baby showers of the rich and semifamous.

Once on her profile page, I click on the picture of her and her bridesmaids. They're all influencers, but among them is Coco Mulligan, CEO of the popular lingerie brand Coco's Intimates. Not an A-list celebrity, but her social media draw, plus Millie's budding presence in the lifestyle influencer space, could open me up to a higher-end clientele.

After my breakup, this could be exactly what I need for more than one reason.

I slide into Millie's DMs.

Hey Mills! Happy to take you up on the gig. Can you send me the deets to make sure it aligns with my schedule?

I sound like a fake, but I swear LA influencers have a tone. I have to follow suit. Aloof Valley Girl with a baby-high, light bringer but a little bored—you'd know it if you heard it. I'm born and raised in LA; I speak these words in love.

Millie is quick to reply. Not playing hardball or hard to get, and I have to respect her for it. She lays out the schedule for the weekend and asks what kinds of services I usually offer for events like hers. I've never done a three-day event like this one, but since the audience will change over the course of the weekend—from just bridesmaids and Millie's mom to the rehearsal dinner guests and finally the wedding attendees—I think sticking to tarot for the whole weekend will still be interesting.

She's typing back when Nina returns with the bottle of wine in hand to refresh both our glasses.

"What's the verdict?" she asks.

"I think it's affirmative." Since I'm confirming last minute, and she's a fellow influencer, I decide to give her a discount for one of her events or offer her a free private reading at a future date.

When Millie replies, it's enthusiastic and effusive, so I drop my prices and the discount options and wait. "We should order food," I say to Nina, but my eyes are still on the screen.

"I'll Postmates it." She backbends to grab her phone off the side table behind her. "Thai or pizza?"

As soon as Millie agrees to my terms, I feel the heavy weight on my chest lift. Breathing space in the desert, at a resort with a healing spa, no less. This is exactly what I need to get over this hiccup and get back on track.

"Pizza," I say, dropping my phone to the couch cushion. I'll email her the contract after sustenance. "And probably more wine."

"You land the gig?" Nina asks.

"Three nights and four days in the desert…" I offer my wineglass for her to clink. "Here I come."