The only thing she had managed to decide was that California would be her next destination. But to get there would take more than the little money she had left. She exited the bus station and stopped by a store for some fabric tape, hair gel, and a stale sandwich from a cooler by the cash register. She ate the sandwich as she walked toward the large hotel in the center of town, the one with the conference center. She walked confidently through the lobby until she found a sign with the information she was looking for: there was a salon professional and beauticians’ trade show in one conference hall, she discovered, and a small business sales summit in the other.
In a restroom, she made herself up: cat-eye liner and dark brows to match her new darker hair, which she slicked back with gel so that the short haircut looked at least somewhat stylish and sleek. She couldn’t wear a bra with her backless cocktail dress, so she used the tape she’d bought earlier to secure her lottery ticket by taping it carefully to the inside of the skirt. “Lisa,” she said into the mirror. Lisa was a hairdresser from Minnesota with big dreams. She was here for the trade show, selling a deep conditioner and her own patented technique for administering it.
Transformed, Lucky walked out into the hall, her backpack held casually over her arm. She stood out—but she also blended in.
She checked the hotel layout, then took the elevator to the fifth floor, and the hotel’s bar. Perched on a stool, she passed the afternoon drinking club soda and pretending to pore over the trade show program, which she had found discarded on a bench. Eventually the bar started to fill with salespeople and hairdressers, done for the day. Lucky ordered a vodka martini and nursed it for an hour while she watched and waited. A man sat down beside her, glanced at her appreciatively once, twice. He was pleasant-looking but not too handsome; he had on a drab gray shirt with a butter-yellow tie. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but the puff of pale skin was there, telltale. He had probably left it up in his room.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, just like she thought he would.
“Oh—well…” She stared down into her empty glass as her stomach swirled, surprised by what she was experiencing: grief, sudden and insistent. The idea of what was supposed to come next, of flirting, smiling, potentially touching and kissing someone other than Cary… she couldn’t. And it made her so angry. Cary had abandoned her. Their relationship had been one very long con—but he was still the only man she had ever loved. The only man she had ever been with.
“No, thank you,” she managed to say.
The man shrugged. He paid his bill and he was gone.
Lucky considered her options. It’s either this, or you sleep in a bus shelter. And then you could get picked up by the police and brought in and that will be it. All over.
Soon enough there was another man, sitting on her left. She watched him as he settled himself onto the stool and ordered a beer, asking first if the bar had the specific craft brew he was looking for on tap. She detected a New York accent. She looked over at him again and smiled shyly when they made eye contact. He returned her smile, polite, then looked down at his phone. Like the man before him, he was middle-aged. He had a pleasant face, a receding hairline, a glinting gold band on his left ring finger. His eyes looked tired, smudged underneath as if he had been up late the night before—another lackluster sales conference in yet another lackluster town. He took a book out of his briefcase. Dale Carnegie. How to Win Friends and Influence People.
“I loved that book,” she said—which was somewhat true. Her father had read it to her when she was ten; many of the concepts had been integral to their cons over the years. She could still remember the “six ways to make people like you”: Act like you’re interested in them. Smile. Remember names. Encourage people to talk about themselves. Talk about their interests. Make people feel important. Carnegie had intended all these things to come from a genuine place. Her father had not.
She put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. Here I am, bugging you when you’re trying to read. Ignore me.”
“Oh,” said the man, looking surprised she was speaking to him at all. “It’s okay. It’s an interesting book.”
“Here for a conference?”
“Yes. Small business expo. You?”
“Salon professional and beauticians’ conference.”
His phone was beside his hand on the bar. On the lock screen, Lucky could see an image of a wide-hipped blond woman in sunglasses, standing on a beach, holding two kids by the hands, smiling. She could picture his life all at once: When he came home from his business trips, he was tired, but the wife was exhausted. Tapped out from taking care of the kids, when he was tapped out from trying to make a living. They argued. He felt unappreciated. She did, too. Both of them had probably fantasized about a moment like this, in a hotel bar with a stranger. No consequences, because no one would ever find out.
“It’s my first work trip,” she said. “I’ve never really been anywhere. And…” She blinked quickly, then reached up and dabbed at the skin under her eyes. “Never mind. Sorry. This is so embarrassing, crying in front of a stranger.”
“No, it’s okay,” he said, leaning in. “What’s wrong?”
“Just, it’s not going well. It’s—” She drew a shaky breath, then signaled to the bartender. “Can we get two shots of tequila?” She gazed at the man again. “You’ll have one with me, right? I so badly need a little perk-up, and tequila always does the trick.”
The bartender plunked the shots and a saltshaker in front of them. The man hesitated, but said, “Oh, why not,” and they both tilted them back. “Now, what is it that has you so upset?”
“You probably wouldn’t find it very interesting.”
“Try me.”
“Well—what’s your name?”
“Tim.”
“Tim, I’m Lisa. I sell beauty supplies to salons. Boring, right?”
“I’m sure there’s something interesting about it.”
“Okay, fine. There is, actually.” She leaned close. “You see, there’s this whole technique to using the deep conditioners. A special head massage technique. And honestly? If you do it right, not only does it feel great for the client, and they only ever want to have you as their hairstylist, but it helps the product penetrate better, meaning your hair actually is softer and healthier, and less resistant to styling, more resistant to damage…” She trailed off. “Sounds like I’m giving you the sales pitch here,” she said, gazing into his eyes.