“For what?”

“The …” I scrolled down the email. “Adult Entertainment Expo. Not sure what that is. Sounds boring.”

At Benta’s snort—mid-crunch of a shrimp—I jerked my head up, just in time to see her eyes water as she pounded her chest. She waved off my help, grabbing her ice water and holding up a finger as she drank.

When she finally came up for air, her voice wheezed. “The Adult Entertainment Expo? I forgot you were working for the condom supplier of the world.”

“Why? What is it?” My phone wouldn’t cooperate, a Google search taking as long as Benta to put me out of my misery. I looked at her impatiently.

“It’s a porn convention. In Vegas. Too bad she isn’t taking you.”

A porn convention? I would have doubted the intel, but Benta would know, her family created an online dating website that makes Tinder look like a kiddie ride. The woman reviewed sex statistics and dating trends over breakfast. She laughed at my look and grabbed my drink, toasting me while finally getting the last of her shrimp—and my daiquiri—down.

A porn convention. Working for Nicole got stranger every day.

11. Parenting 101

I rolled the ball across the floor, Chanel scampering after it, her nails clicking across the floor. My phone rang and I pushed to my feet, grabbing it off the desk, the name on the display making my heart jump.

“Mom?” I shut the door and leaned against it.

“Hey darling. We were just calling to check in.”

“I’ve left you a bunch of messages.”

“Oh, I know. We’ve just been busy.”

“For two months?” My voice was hard, a tone I had never used with her before.

“Don’t be a pill, Chloe. We’re dealing with a lot right now.”

So was I. I swallowed the response. As tough as my new life might be, it didn’t compare to what they must have been dealing with. They were facing jail time, possibly for the rest of their lives.

“Anyway, I’ve got to run. I called because I’m trying to find the name of that masseuse—the one you used to help with your lower back.”

“The masseuse?” Chanel stopped by my feet and looked up at me, her tail wagging.

“Yes. I can’t remember her name. Tom said you would know it.”

Tom. My father. I pictured him standing there, his eyebrow raised, waiting on the masseuse’s name. A name I couldn’t remember. “Is he there?”

“He’s busy, love. Do you remember the girl’s name?”

“No. I’m sorry.” I thought of all of the questions I had for her, my knowledge of their new life based mostly on an American Greed episode that had aired last week. “Did you get my email about my new job? I’m—”

“I’ll have to catch up with you later, sweetie.”

“But—” There was a beep, the call ending, and I looked at my cell, our conversation lasting less than two minutes.

Two minutes. Not long enough yet it told me all I needed to know.

They didn’t miss me, and certainly weren’t stressing over my well-being. How was that possible? Were they that confident of my ability to survive? What if Cammie kicked me out? Or I lost my job? What if one of my calls that they had ignored had been from the hospital?

I didn’t know anything about having a child. And we may have never been very close. But surely, written somewhere in Parenting 101, they were supposed to give a fuck.

Cammie, Benta, and I first bonded over gladiator sandals in NYU’s spring orientation. This was back when everyone was wearing them and we thought we were so above that. I didn’t pick them because they were kind and compassionate. I didn’t pick them for their fierce loyalty. I picked them because they wore the same things I did, carried the same purse, and had the same lifestyle. They preferred fashion shows to poetry readings, and shopping to working out. They were spoiled, as was I, and we melded together in a blend of entitlement.

I was always the worst in our bunch. The least reliable. The most self-centered. It was the general expectation that I would flake in any time of need.

And I really expected, in the dark parts of my soul, for them to leave me over this. For our friendship to wither away into nothing, our common ground lost. Instead, they rallied—feeding me, housing me, and distracting me in times of struggle.

They had been better friends than I deserved, our friendship turning a corner, becoming deeper through all this. I hoped, one day, I would be able to return the favor. At the very least, to become a better friend.

Benta’s new boots clipped across scratched wooden floors, her new Givenchy bag slouching on the tiny table before me. I pulled my jealous eyes away and studied my phone, calling the next realtor, my gaze lifting to Benta as she returned. I left a message, taking the coffee from her. “Thanks. We’ve got one place left.”

“Good. These boots are killing me.” She sipped her coffee and leaned forward, looking at my notepad. “What’s your top choice so far?”

I shrugged. “Probably that last one.”

“In that neighborhood?” The corner of her mouth lifted in what could only be described as a sneer. I let out a controlled sigh, swallowing a hundred snide thoughts. There were moments, in between my unending gratitude for their help, that I really hated her and Cammie’s wealth. Hated even more my jealousy of that wealth.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “But really.”

I let out a pitiful groan, leaning back in my seat. “You think I want to live there? I’m desperate. And I’m wearing a hole in Cammie’s couch.”

“I’d offer to let you stay with me, but I value our friendship too much.” She smiled sweetly over her cup, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Thanks.” My cell rang, and I scooted back in my seat. “That’s the next realtor. Let’s go.”

It was our last showing of the day, and the one with the most promise, mainly because it was in Manhattan. Anything within walking distance of the Brantleys’ was gold to me. Granted… this one was twelve blocks away. A hike, especially for someone with my limited experience with cardio. But that was all secondary because it had just hit the market, was in my price range, and Benta was about out of patience. I would have taken Cammie; she could handle low-rent experiences better than Benta, but Benta had a driver and carried chocolate on her person, so she won the Who Helps Chloe Pick an Apartment competition, hands-down. Lucky girl.

All we had to do was walk in, and I was in love. First off, it had a closet. TWO, if you counted the coat closet. It was the type of thing I wouldn’t have thought twice about in Miami. Or, hell, three months earlier. But standing there in last season’s jacket and my working-girl mentality, I swooned a little. Benta reached out and gripped my elbow, so yeah. I think there was some sexy knee buckling.

The only thing was, I had to complete what the broker described as a “rigorous” application process. It was family owned, and they were picky about their tenants, yada yada yada, so I needed their approval. I stopped listening on the second sentence and (politely) snatched the application out of the realtor’s hand so fast she blinked.

Later that night, with my feet tucked under me on the couch, I read over the application, attempting to polish off my rough edges before I scanned it over to her. My name, birthday, and address were all easy. Cammie’s address was highly respectable, and she had cheerfully volunteered to play pretend landlord, should they make a reference call.