"Oh, babe."
"I'm sitting in a bar right now that has a dead deer on the wall and it's looking at me."
"Stop." Sita laughs and I crack a tiny smile.
"Listen," I say. "What are you doing this weekend? Can you come get me? You could drive out here Friday night — it's only about four hours — and then bring me back Sunday night."
There's brief silence. "This weekend's tricky," she says. "I'm going to Palm Springs with the girls."
"Oh my god, take me with you. Or send a car for me. Please. Dad cut me off financially while I'm here and I just need to be somewhere that isn't Duster. I'll pay you back, I promise."
Another pause, longer this time. I can hear background noise on her end — music, voices, the hum of a normal life in a normal city.
"The thing is —" She stops. "I would, Sloane. You know I would. But it's some of the girls — I mean, everyone loves you, obviously, but —"
"But what, Sita?"
She exhales. "You're kind of hot right now. In the press. And not in a good way. And some of the girls feel like — I mean, Nicole specifically said —"
"Nicole."
"She just thinks that if you're seen with us — if someone posts something and you're in it — it could —"
"It could what? Contaminate you?"
"She didn't say contaminate. The paparazzi and the Princess Pigpen stuff and — she just doesn't want to be associated with — she doesn't want it to reflect —"
"On her."
"I'm sorry," Sita says. "But it's Nicole's house."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. I know it's not fine. And just so you know, that's not how I feel about you at all. I'm here for you, Sloane. Nicole is too. She just needs some time until all of this dies down."
"She's clearly not here for me," I say flatly. "I'm at an all-time low in my life and come to think of it, she hasn't even sent me a message to check how I am. Mel hasn't either."
"I'm so, so sorry," Sita says again. "Talk to me. Tell me what you're doing there."
But I don't feel like talking anymore. The words have dried up somewhere between my chest and my throat and what's left is a tight, sick feeling that I can't swallow past. These are my friends. These are the women I've spent every birthday and every New Year's and every long weekend with for the majority of my adult life. We've shared hotel rooms and secrets and hangovers. I was there when Nicole's marriage fell apart and I was there when Mel's mother was ill and now I'm the one who's falling apart and they won't even text me.
"I have to go," I say.
"Sloane —"
"I can't do this right now. Bye, Sita."
I hang up and take a long drink of wine. The music switches to something annoying with a fiddle.
"Hey there."
I look up. A man is standing by my table. He's maybe thirty-five, wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He's holding two bottles of beer.
"Mind if I sit down?" he says, already pulling out the chair.
"I'm not really —"
"Just thought you looked like you could use some company." He sits. He puts one of the beers in front of me, even though I have a glass of wine. "I'm Travis."
