Blame the improv background, the acting training, a childhood living in stories, but Sewanee could lie. Easily. To herself as much as anyone else. She lifted the headphones off her neck and secured them over her ears. She pressed play on her phone. No sound. She turned up the volume. Still nothing. She turned it all the way up.
In her peripheral vision, she saw the mother clasp her hands over Hannah’s ears, pull her into her narrow chest, and bug her eyes at Sewanee.
No.
God, no.
She ripped the headphones off in time to hear, at full volume: “He thrust her legs apart, splaying her open, exposing her secret place to his throbbing eyes. Already pulsing, glistening, her generous–”
Sewanee stabbed so fiercely at the pause button the phone shot to the floor. She scrambled for it, the audiobook continuing: “‘Say it,’ he growled. ‘I want to hear you say it.’ He gave her one quick, teasing lick. She moaned. ‘Say you want my–’”
The phone had fallen under Hannah’s dangling, light-up Disney-princess sneakers. Sewanee grabbed it, jerked upright, and–in three stabs–stopped the audiobook . . . just after the word “cock.”
She stared down at the phone, ignoring the glare drilling into her temple. She took, what she hoped, was a casual-seeming breath. Then, as if nothing had happened （denial was another skill she’d honed）， she turned fully away from mother and child and looked out the window.
Once she’d focused, actually took in the view their descent offered, she concluded Las Vegas had a rather flaccid look during the day. All that nighttime neon was like Vegas Viagra.
She shifted in her seat. Who takes a kid to Las Vegas, anyway? she thought righteously, if irrationally. Great parenting. She knew mothers like that. Hell, she had a mother like that. Soft, over-loving. She’d been raised the way Hannah was being raised. West side of L.A. （you could tell by the mother’s ropey yoga arms, her rootless dye job, her thoroughly moisturized skin）， schools with feelings, parents who wanted the best for their child while ensuring their child was the best. Who said you could be anything, do anything, dreams do come true, you’re special, you’re anointed. Just be nice to everyone, respect everyone, tell the truth, work hard, and everything will fall into place. You will live happily ever after.
Well, good luck with that, Hannah.
Because this is how it actually goes.
A stunningly average woman the wrong side of thirty on her way to Vegas, wearing an eye patch, sitting in a broken seat, listening to porn.
Chapter Two
“The Best Friend”
SEWANEE ASSESSED HERSELF IN THE GILDED MIRROR OF THE VENETIAN’S elevator. Unwashed hair, saggy jeans, rumpled T-shirt, zip-up hoodie with some unidentifiable breakfast-y stain near the zipper. No wonder the woman who gave her the key at the VIP lounge had looked confused.
When the elevator doors opened on the thirty-fifth floor, she followed signs to the right. Stopping at the correct door, she slipped her backpack off （carefully–her right shoulder still screamed sometimes） and set it on top of her roller bag. She opened the door with the key card.
A marble hallway beckoned her. She glided down it, passing a powder room larger than her guesthouse bathroom. On the opposite side, a butler’s pantry/bar that could have serviced the entire hotel. Eventually she was standing in the middle of a sunken ultra-modern marble living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip.
“You made it!”
She pivoted left, looked down another long hallway, and saw the bathrobed and barefoot two-time Golden Globe–nominated, one-time Oscar-nominated （they didn’t talk about that discrepancy）， L’Oréal spokesmodel, and UNICEF ambassador, Adaku Obi sprinting toward her.
Before Sewanee could respond, Adaku was upon her, wrapping her in a fierce, all-encompassing hug. Adaku’s hugs always began with swaying, moved into meditative stillness, and ended with deep yoga breathing. The girl knew how to stay in the moment. Even if it was only for a moment.
Adaku pulled back and smiled big. “Isn’t this insane?! It’s ginormous! Stupid!” Adaku had always spoken in exclamatory bursts, but the tempo had increased, Sewanee had noticed, in direct proportion to her success. “And guess what?! You’ll never guess so I’ll tell you. There’re two bedrooms!” She gave Sewanee a teasing push.
Sewanee pushed her back. “Only two?”
Adaku guffawed and pushed her again. “That I’ve found so far! Now you have to stay with me!”
Sewanee scanned the sprawl. Shook her head. “Mark already paid for my suite at the Rio.”