The next day, I'm trying not to spiral.

 

Really, I am.

 

I sit at the little vanity in my hotel room, brushing out my hair in long, even strokes, willing myself not to look like a depressed Victorian ghost. The brush snags against the ends and tugs at my scalp, but I barely feel it.

 

The room smells like that stupid lavender pillow spray the hotel leaves on the nightstand.

 

My itinerary says I have a luxury underground wine tasting to attend this afternoon, and even if my soul feels like a stomped-on crumpled receipt, I have sponsors to impress.

 

So, I slip into a casual but sophisticated little white...