A sound escaped Adaku that would set dogs howling. “It’s good, Swan. It’s so good. It’s In-N-Out good.”
Sewanee knew if Adaku were allowed one dying request, it would be a Double-Double from In-N-Out Burger. Adaku was buzzing like a lightbulb. Sewanee began to buzz, too. “What?”
Adaku wrung her hands. “That Lysistrata-in-the-jungle project I was telling you about?” Sewanee nodded. “I hit a milestone. The big one.”
She stilled. “The big one?”
Adaku’s chin trembled. “Our big one.”
Sewanee could take comfort, later, in the fact that her first impulse, her instinct, had been happiness and not a finger-snap of jealousy. The smile that happened was real, the shout that erupted from her was genuine, the tears that followed were joyful. They giggled and they cried and it was impossible to tell, after a certain point, which was which. A wintry mix of emotions. Sewanee threw her arms around her friend, the only true one she had left, the most constant thing in her life, and felt Adaku’s heart beating rapidly against her own.
“A million dollars,” Adaku whispered, trembling. “A million goddamn dollars.”
“You did it!” Sewanee squeaked.
Adaku pulled back, took Sewanee’s wrecked face in her soft hands. “We did it! In that shitty pizza joint on 181st–”
“You dare malign the memory of Tony’s?”
Adaku’s tears coated her smiling lips. “Over our $2.99 two-slice-and-a-Coke special, we promised. One of us would get a cool mil before thirty-five.”
Sewanee pulled her close again and felt tears overtake the laugh, her throat tightening. “You did it. You–” She abruptly shoved Adaku away. Playfully, she was sure. “God, I’m so proud of you!”
Adaku wiped her face. “I mean, after taxes and commissions it’s like four hundred thousand dollars, but–”
“Oh, well then never mind.”
They looked at each other for a quiet moment. Adaku’s eyes clouded. Her face turned earnest. “We both know you would have gotten this ages ago. If that motherfu–”
“You win, I win, we win, remember?”
“But it’s so unfair–”
“Don’t,” Sewanee demanded, taking Adaku by her shoulders. “You’re getting paid a million dollars to star in a film.”
Her smile returned. “I just got the call and you’re the only person I wanted to share it with. I’m so glad you’re here!”
Sewanee stepped back and held up her hands, like a soothsayer fending off a vision. “I see . . . I see copious amounts of champagne in our future.” Adaku laughed. “But right now your two minutes are up and I’m going to be late.”
Adaku jumped forward. “Of course, of course! Sorry.” She unlocked the door. “What do you want to do tonight? I was thinking–”
“Whatever you want!”
“Can I convince you to go to a club? The bottle service–”
“Yes, all of it, babe, I gotta go!”
Adaku flung open the door. “Go, go! You’re going to be late! How many times do I have to tell you?”
Sewanee laughed, gave Adaku’s arm a firm squeeze, and beelined away.
As she hustled down the hallway, she felt her jaw lock.
As she reentered the convention floor, she felt her chest tighten.
As she found her way to the Romance pavilion and located the correct ballroom for the panel, one word pounded in her head. Why. On a loop. Why. Why. Why.
This was how quickly her mental state could change. This dangerous, invisible undertow was the one thing in this life that still scared her, made her wonder if she was wrong to have forsaken medication after the first year, to have given up on therapy earlier than that. Because this wasn’t good. Because in her mind, it was seven years ago and she was lying in that hospital bed wondering why they had bothered saving her.
THE BALLROOM WAS filled to overflowing with authors and fans. They were sitting on the steps, leaning against the walls, propped on their friends’ laps. The well-chosen panel–smart, talented people who had upended the childhood dictum to be seen and not heard–had kept the room engaged. There was Alice Dunlop aka Dixie Barton; Mildred Prim, a Royal Academy of Dramatic Art–trained septuagenarian Brit with an obsessive following from the famous Highlander series she’d narrated for the last twenty years, who simply used her ironic maiden name for Romance; and Ron Studman. Ron was one of the few Romance narrators who relished being seen, because he wanted people to know that even if you were more than middle-aged, with an ever-increasing waistline and an ever-decreasing hairline, you could be a sex symbol, too, if you had the goods. And the goods, in his case, was his voice, and the fans loved him for it.