Almost.
I pressed confirm.
A second later, an email landed in my inbox.
PRIVATE BEGINNER DIVE — CONFIRMED.
I should have regretted it immediately.
That would have been wise, mature, and reassuringly on brand for a woman who paid other adults to remind her when to drink water.
Instead, I looked toward the dive shop.
Ellie was demonstrating something with a pair of fins and an expression of deep moral concern. She glanced up, caught me watching, and lifted one hand in a quick, careless wave.
I waved back.
Then I picked up my breakfast sandwich with both hands, took one defiant bite, and got egg yolk all over my shirt.
Two
Savannah
One year earlier
The problem with being adored by twenty-two thousand people was that none of them could help you out of a pair of rhinestone pants.
“I’m trapped,” I announced.
The wardrobe assistant crouched behind me, both hands fighting with the zipper at the base of my spine.
“You’re not trapped.”
“I can’t feel my left leg.”
“That’s unrelated to the zipper.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me?”
Rachel Donovan stood on the other side of the dressing room, reading something on her phone while three people moved around her carrying makeup brushes, garment bags, and enough electrical equipment to launch a small satellite.
“You can still sing without feeling your left leg,” she said.
“Thank you for your compassion.”
“You hired me for judgment, not compassion.”
“I distinctly remember compassion being included in the premium package.”
“You stopped paying for premium after you bought a horse trailer you don’t use.”
“It’s vintage.”
“It has raccoons.”
“They’re not included.”
Rachel looked up from her phone. She wore a black suit that had survived airports, dressing rooms, and several years of managing my career without acquiring so much as a wrinkle. Her dark hair was twisted into a neat knot. Her expression suggested she had been born knowing how to renegotiate a contract while ordering lunch.
