The Lion's Den(27)

“What’s the brother like?”

“I don’t know, but I saw a picture and he was hot, too. Just come be my wingman. Please? If you don’t like him, you don’t have to stay.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” She hopped up and down, her bouncing boobs drawing stares from every guy in eyeshot. “I swear it’s gonna be fun.”

Over Summer’s shoulder, I spied my boss watching me from the deck. I slid my tray off the cocktail table. “I gotta get back to work.”

I’d not taken two steps when a bear of a guy abruptly backed out of the conversation he was having to plow directly into me, drenching us both in Heineken.

“Watch where you’re going,” he reprimanded me.

I looked up to where my boss stood on the deck to see her shaking her head, her mouth in a hard line. Great. So on top of having to pay for the spilled drinks out of my tips, I was obviously going to be chastised by her as well, if not fired. At least I’d ostensibly be meeting a hot guy later. Good thing. By the end of this day, I was gonna need a diversion.



At six thirty sharp I descended the stairs to the subway, freshly showered and clad in a black dress that I hoped straddled the line between sexy and hip, perfect for an art show. I settled into a window seat as the nearly empty train hurtled into the tunnel, turning my attention to my phone.

It connected to the train’s Wi-Fi, and a text from Wendy popped up:

Hey lady do u have that pic of us & Summer from Coachella 2 years ago where we’re sitting on a stage? I wanna frame it for her birthday but I can’t find it.



I opened the photos app and used the map feature to scroll past this year’s Coachella pictures––neither Summer nor I were there; I’d had to work and she’d been in Hawaii with Brian—but Wendy had kept us more than updated with photos of her and the ever-rotating gaggle of gorgeous girls she always traveled with, all hats and feathers and bare midriffs, glazed eyes hidden by sunglasses. Claire was the only one I knew by name, always hovering on the edge of the group looking less like trouble than the other girls. Wendy was invariably at the center, of course, impeccably dressed and perfectly poised, flashing her sparkling smile.

I had to stifle a laugh when I landed on the previous year’s Coachella pics—none of which were actually taken at Coachella. Wendy had been working for an event planner in charge of Coachella-adjacent private parties at homes with pools and DJs and had hired Summer and me to sling drinks for inebriated celebrities and their entourages. Wendy’s boss ran her ragged while Summer and I were on our feet noon to midnight for a measly three hundred dollars per day (no tips allowed!), wearing see-through burnout crop tops emblazoned with BARTENDER BABES. There was a priceless selfie of the three of us hiding behind the bushes on the side of the party house eating leftover canapés and guzzling vodka Red Bulls in the dark and another of us giggling maniacally while squeezed into a double bed in a house rented by some guy who had a crush on Wendy and let us crash for free.

Finally I reached the pictures from two years ago, the ones Wendy actually wanted. She and I were seniors at UCLA at the time, and someone had gifted her a handful of VIP tickets—an exorbitant gesture of the sort that happened to Wendy on a regular basis. We were relatively new friends, having only met the previous year, so I’d yet to introduce her to Summer.

Truth be told, I hadn’t done the best job of keeping up with Summer while I was in college. We’d remained close the last two years of high school, our constant texts and Skype calls serving as a pressure-release valve for my small-town Georgia life, which I was beginning to find suffocating. My freshman year at UCLA we communicated less, though we did have a great time when she came out from Arizona for spring break. But the following year, after she moved with Rhonda and Brittani to the Inland Empire––only an hour away––we only saw each other maybe every few months. It wasn’t just the drive; our lives were in such different places—she was working at Hooters and taking cosmetology classes while I was studying and doing plays. When she’d come into LA for the night, she’d want to go out to clubs to meet guys and I’d want to go over to a drama friend’s house to smoke pot and listen to obscure records. But I’d always thought that Summer and Wendy would get along, so when one of the other girls from our Coachella group dropped out last-minute, I asked Wendy if I could offer Summer the ticket.

I was right. Maybe too right. From the moment they laid eyes on each other, Summer and Wendy were inseparable. I soon felt like a third wheel trailing behind them, watching their flower crowns catch the afternoon sun as they bent their heads together plotting which stage or bar to hit next. I wasn’t surprised that Wendy took to Summer so quickly; she collected pretty friends like charms, and Summer was the most dazzling of them all. It was Summer’s instant affinity for Wendy that caught me off guard. Summer had never had many female friends. She didn’t need them. In Georgia, I was her sole confidante. In fact, during all the years I’d known her, she’d only introduced me to two girlfriends, neither of whom she’d ever mentioned again. Of course I’d hoped she’d like Wendy, but I never imagined I’d be left in the tent holding our place while they went off to do whatever it was they were whispering about.

The pictures from the trip were reflective of this dynamic. Wendy and Summer dancing, outlined in the blues and pinks of the stage lights; Wendy and Summer peering over identical sunglasses while sipping identical drinks; Wendy with Summer’s hair draped over her so that she looked like a blonde. There were a few pics of the three of us mixed in, and I immediately recognized the one Wendy must want. We were backstage—Wendy knew a guy in a band, of course—our ALL ACCESS lanyards layered over our festival beads, perched on the edge of the stage smiling with the sun setting in a blaze of orange behind us. We looked like three sirens just risen from the sea.