“I’m sorry,” Kitty repeated. She didn’t know what else to say. Everything seemed empty, even more so when she was clearly on a high. She stammered for a moment, and was spared further awkwardness when two vehicles approached, one from each direction. They slowed, then made an impatient drama out of navigating around Luke’s car. No horns this time, but one of the drivers—a barrel-sized woman—shot Kitty the bird.

“I think that’s my cue,” Luke said. “Fucking L.A.”

Kitty retreated to the opposite sidewalk. She waved with the empty water bottle, and was about to take the steps leading up to her apartment building when she thought of something to say. Something meaningful.

“Luke?”

“Yeah?” He had the car facing east, looking at her over his shoulder.

“If you want some company at the funeral . . . if you need . . . you know, a friend.” Kitty offered a small but sincere smile. “I’ll be there for you.”

His expression illuminated from within, as if all the lights inside his skull had been flicked on at once. “Really?”

“Really.”

She’d seen him smile before, but never like this. It was a thing of near-beauty. He turned the music back up—a song Kitty recognized: “Rock Steady,” by Aretha Franklin. She used to dance to this at her nana’s house in Phoenix Hill, and Nana danced, too, twirling beautifully, endlessly, across the cluttered living room. This memory, and Luke’s genuine smile, lifted laughter from Kitty’s soul.

“Good luck with Milly,” Luke said. “And for God’s sake, don’t tell her you know me.”

He pulled away, soon gone. Kitty ran up to her apartment, still laughing. Once inside, she found “Rock Steady” on Spotify and turned it up loud.

Kitty called Antonio Senza and her luck continued; Antonio had a six-week waiting list, but there’d been a cancelation and she scored an appointment for Wednesday morning. She then took several deep breaths and called Milly Morello—or rather, Milly Morello’s assistant, who was succinct and clinical, and who booked Kitty “a slot” (a term Kitty didn’t care for—it certainly wasn’t a “lunch meeting”) at 2:25 p.m. “sharp,” on Friday.

The call with Milly’s assistant had taken some of the wind out of Kitty’s sails, but certainly not all. She video-called her mama next, and squealed all the way to Kentucky.

Friday, 2:24 p.m.

Kitty sat in the Sequoia waiting room, her eyebrows threaded, her fingernails painted, a dash of makeup accentuating her lips and cheekbones. She wore a jean jacket over a vintage Rolling Stones tee, black jeggings, slip-on Nikes. Cool, comfortable, totally Kitty. She’d left the skateboard at home, though.