"Did you know we haven't been in Vegas this whole time?" Kitty says the next day as we sit on the Deuce and ride nine stops up the Strip.

"What do you mean?"

She shows me the map on her phone, the Las Vegas city limits highlighted, and it's only as our blue dot passes the Sahara hotel that we cross over the red line. "We've been in Paradise all this time." She gasps and says, "Does the world know that everything they associate with Las Vegas isn't actually in Vegas? This is wild!"

"Scandalous," I say with a laugh, leaning over to zoom out on the map. The actual Vegas is a strange sprawling shape, only the northernmost part of the strip covered. "Still, Paradise? That's not so bad. Pretty apt, actually. The last few days have been heaven."

"At least now we can officially say we've been to Vegas. I wonder how many people spend their entire trip on the Strip and don't even know they never made it to the city."

We ride four stops beyond the Sahara and walk a few blocks to our destination: The Writer's Block.

Neither of us anticipated how much time we'd spend reading by the pool but I've finished both books I brought with me – yes, I have my Kindle but there's something special about holding a physical book – and Kitty's resorted to borrowing my thriller even though she'd much rather be reading a cutesy romance. So the first thing on today's agenda (we haven't even been to the pool yet) is to go to a cute indie bookstore and find something to read.

It must be one of the best things about going to a new city, finding new independent bookstores filled with the owners' recommendations, stacked with books I've never heard of. I envy anyone who comes to Boston for the first time and gets to bask in the glory that is Brattle Book Shop with its iconic pencil sign and its book-stuffed courtyard. I may not have traveled that much, but wherever I go I make sure to buy a book, a shelf in my bookcase dedicated to the novels I've bought on my travels from places like Books are Magic in Brooklyn; The Novel Neighbor in St Louis; The Dog Eared Book in Palmyra; Sherman's in Portland, Maine.

That shelf is a fan favorite on my Instagram account and my followers are often recommending stores for me to visit. When I posted on my story a few weeks ago that I was coming here, five separate people told me to check out The Writer's Block. So here we are, in a quiet, more residential part of downtown Las Vegas that feels much further than a couple blocks from the Strip, standing outside a modern black square covered in windows, the store's name in white block capitals. I take a photo with the sky in the background to post later – I never post about somewhere while I'm still there, something Kitty has drilled into me, so neither of us have posted anything to do with our hotel.

Kitty has posted about being in Vegas, though. So many of her followers were hyped up about her wedding and kept sending her questions about it, to the point that last night she ended up posting the selfie we took outside the Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas sign with a confessional caption, letting her fans know that the wedding's off but she's okay and she's having some quality time with her best friend. The sympathy poured in, her inbox flooded with DMs (most nice, but of course, it's social media, some were nasty), and her post was soon bloated with comments. When I offered to scroll through them for her and read out the nice ones, I didn't realize how many people would be bashing me. Random accounts, some of which don't even follow Kitty, criticizing my appearance or, for god knows what reason, accusing me of breaking up #Letty. Apparently her followers are bigger fans of Levi than I am.

That stung. But it's nothing I can't handle. I do occasionally feature in my pictures on my account, and with twelve thousand followers, there are a few assholes in there who think they can shock or hurt me by calling me fat (which is objectively true) or ugly (subjectively false) or a pick-me. Because apparently dyeing my hair and wearing fitted clothes as a plus-size woman makes me desperate for attention. Funny, really, when I am only in about five percent of the pictures I post, if that.

"I have a challenge for you," Kitty says.

"Hit me."

"We're going to choose each other a book."

Oh, I have got this in the bag. I know exactly what Kitty likes. Romance with illustrated covers, ideally with a cute girl and a broody guy, bonus points if the words steamy or spicy are used in any of the blurbs from other authors. The spice isn't a requirement, as long as there's a couple she can root for, a love interest she can swoon over. She's a slut for anything Talia Hibbert, Ali Hazelwood, Amy Lea; any time there's a new Emily Henry coming out, she blocks off release day so she can read it in one sitting.

"Game on."

We head into the store and Kitty says, "In ten minutes, we meet back here."

"You're on."

She vanishes in a flash, probably making a beeline for the mystery and thriller section, while I head straight for romance. This bookstore is a beautiful, quirky little maze: there are plants everywhere, between bookcases and at the end of shelves, and oversized string lights hang from the ceiling; the children's section is full of rainbow kites and bright books. Honestly, the kid's section of a bookstore is, like, one thing (aside from adorable little baby onesies) that makes me want to have kids. The books are so cute and bright and engaging and although I can't see myself being a mom any time soon, I love the idea of bringing a child to the bookstore and watching them pick out a story with glee.

In the meantime, I am that child, the romance section a feast for my eyes as I browse the covers. A buffet of pinks and purples and baby blues, yellows and greens and oranges, nothing like the blacks and reds and navies of the books I tend to gravitate towards. Kitty and I couldn't be more opposite. It's the same on Instagram: my feed is moody, with a heavy focus on darker colors, a book with a black cover paired with a coffee and a candle that smells like tobacco and leather. Kitty's, on the other hand, is light and bright, flowers and white bookshelves and pretty clothes in every color of the rainbow. She matches the covers of the books she loves, although I can't help but notice that virtually every single protagonist is either a slim white blonde or a slim white brunette.

I pull out spine after spine, only checking the backs of the ones with good covers, and then I hit the motherlode: a fat girl on the cover in a beautiful dress, a book that promises to be about fashion and fatness and reality TV. Perfection.

I make the most of the ten minutes, though, taking pictures of books that look right up Kitty's alley so I can check them against her Storygraph account to see if she's read them. If not, I'll be back.

My phone buzzes. A text from Sally: Work is incredibly boring without you, by the way. hope you're having a good time but can you come back please.

haha knew you'd miss me! I say.

how's vegas??

fantastic so far. very fucking hot but lots of cool shit to see and kitty's definitely perked up!

Sally sends a series of winks in response. I send back a facepalm emoji, followed by a skull.

stop reading into things, I say. there's nothing between me and kitty.

i know!! you keep saying!!

go back to missing me at work pls xoxo, I send, and I stuff my phone into the pocket of my shorts.

Kitty and I reach the front of the store at the same time, both of us holding our choices behind our backs, and she says, "Reveal on three."

She counts down, much to the amusement of a couple people in the store, and on zero, we swap. She gasps when she sees the cover of the one I've chosen for her, with a fat heroine, and I might have to borrow it once she's done with it because I so rarely get to read books about girls like me. The one Kitty has picked out is a new release from an author I've loved before, promising to be twisty and gripping and clever and claustrophobic, and those are four of my favorite words when it comes to the books I read.

"This sounds perfect," I say, flipping through. The chapters aren't too long, so it'll hold my attention.

"This looks so fucking good!" Kitty squeaks, fanning herself with the book that we haven't actually bought yet.

"I don't know if there's spice," I warn her, and she laughs.

"I'm not all about the spice, Felicity. I'm like a birthday cake. I have layers."

That she is. Even in the wake of her future being turned upside down, Kitty is sugar and sponge and frosting and sprinkles and all the best parts of life.

*

Dinner at the top of the Strat is booked for a couple days' time but the sun will have set by the time we get up there on Friday, so today we're heading up to the observation deck for the best view Vegas has to offer from nearly nine hundred feet in the air, close to double the height of the High Roller. There's no time limit once we're up there and we each have a new book, and there's a cafe at the top, so I plan to spend a couple hours. I also plan to pay for the tickets, but the moment I go to the bathroom in the casino at the base, Kitty beats me to it with a wicked grin.

From the moment we step out of the elevator, the view is unparalleled. The entire city is laid out before us like a map that stretches into the distance for miles until the mountains on the horizon. Vegas really is an oasis in the desert, sitting at the base of a bowl formed by the mountains. I don't know how far I can see but it must be twenty miles in each direction, and it'd be further if the rolling hills weren't in the way. It's an unexpected juxtaposition, the miles of flat and then the sudden terrain shift.

"I never realized how hilly it is in Nevada," Kitty says, leaning against the window next to me.

"Me neither. Insane that this place exists, when you think about it."

"Mmm. All this desert and then boom. A shit ton of neon and, like, a billion gallons of swimming pool water. I wonder how much it costs to run the Strip. Like, the lights and the water and the electricity and everything."

"I dread to think how much this city spends on air conditioning."

"Fuck, yeah. That alone is probably, like, a hundred million a year."

We do a slow full circuit, taking photos from every angle, and I'm about to snag one of the couches facing the windows when Kitty grabs my elbow and pulls me to the outdoor observation deck.

"Fliss."

"What?"

"Look at the rides!"

I watch as a ride affixed to a rail on the side of the observation deck tips people in a car over the edge, so they're dangling in thin air. My stomach flips just looking at it, and not in a good way. Heights, no problem, but hanging off the edge of a roller coaster nine hundred feet in the air and hoping this isn't the one time it breaks? Hell fucking no.

But when I look at Kitty, there's a wild look in her espresso brown eyes, the kind of look that has me reversing away from her, back to the safety of the couches indoors, the thick glass separating me from outside.

"I am not getting on that thing so don't even fucking think about it," I say, hands up as I back away. The track keeps tilting back and forth like a see-saw, the riders screaming as they plummet towards the ground and are then lurched back.

"It looks fun!"

I gape at her, slack-jawed, shaking my head. "Are you actually broken in the head, Katherine? That's a tragedy waiting to happen! Absolutely no fucking way."

Kitty watches the ride for several seconds longer, playing with a curl that has fallen out of her sturdy claw clip, before she turns back to me. "Okay, yeah, even I'm not crazy enough for that one."

"Thank god. Because you would have to do it alone, and I would feel guilty if you died and I didn't, and I can't live with those kinds of feelings," I say. God, I'm all shaky just watching it.

"No-one's dying today. At least, neither of us. Some of those poor suckers might, if a screw comes loose."

"Ugh, don't." I shudder at the thought. Roller coasters have always freaked me out. I've been on a few and always enjoyed them by the end, but the waiting, the anticipation, the working myself up to get on and then the noises they make, god, it's a lot.

"We are going on that one, though," she says. She points. She's pointing up. As in, at the sky. I join her outside again and follow her finger and my stomach swallows itself when I look up. What from the ground appeared to be an antenna on top of the Strat is actually the Big Shot, one of those tower rides that propels you to the top like a catapult.

"No."

"Yes."

"We're high enough already. That thing must add, like, an extra two hundred feet!" My voice is creeping higher and people are starting to look over at us. Kitty's lips are twitching, a smile playing between her cheeks.

"Pretty please, my beautiful, wonderful, favorite person in the world?"

"Keep your flattery to yourself, Cohen," I warn, hugging my elbows to myself as though I can shrink myself down and she won't be able to see me to bug me.

She sticks out her bottom lip and turns on her sad puppy dog eyes and fuck, they're effective."But I'm so sad and devastatingly heartbroken and all I want in this world is for you to go on that ride with me."

I huff and glower at her. "Are you freaking kidding me right now? You're going to guilt trip me to get me on a roller coaster?"

"That depends." She twirls the curl around her finger and I can't help but follow the movement with my eyes, as though she's putting me under a spell. "Is it working?"

"No. What happened to Little Miss I'm Totally Fine and Not At All Heartbroken? I liked her better."

"She's taking a back seat for now," Kitty says, exaggerating her sad little pout. "Right now I'm so gutted and lonely and no-one will ever love me."

"You," I say, pointing at her chest, "are a terrible person."

"Listen, I'm totally out of my comfort zone at the moment. Like, in life," she says, and I can't tell if she has dropped the act or not. "I can't remember the last time I was single and there was a time I thought I never would be again."

"Kitty–"

"So, if I have to be out of my comfort zone, I'm going to take you along with you and snatch you out of yours. We will be uncomfortable together."

I laugh a mirthful laugh, shaking my head at her. "Quit it. I came up here to read with a great view."

"Which we can totally do after we scream out lungs out on the Big Shot," Kitty says, inching closer to me and slowly wrapping her hands around my arm, pulling me towards the Big Shot. "Come on, Flissy Wissy. Time to put on your big girl pants and get on a teeny tiny little bitty ride. Do it for me."

"No."

Kitty folds her arms and stares me down. "Quit kvetching and get your tuchis on the ride," she says, sounding scarily like her mom, but I am stronger than that.

"I'm not getting on that fucking ride."

*

I get on the fucking ride.

We shoot up into the air and I leave my organs on the ground. I scream so hard my throat tears, or at least that's what it feels like: I can't catch my breath, but when I do, all I can do is scream more as we are launched into space and wherever my stomach is now, it's rolling. We fly so high I can't see the tower below us, can't see anything past my feet so it feels like we're floating over a thousand feet in the air, like when the ride lets us drop, we will fall all the way down to the sidewalk. I'm gripping Kitty's hand so tight I think my nails have broken her skin and I've probably burst her eardrum with my animal screams, but she is laughing. The whole way up, all the way down, she laughs like a kid on a carousel while I shriek like I'm in a low budget eighties horror movie.

The whole ride is thirty seconds long but it feels like forever, an interminable amount of time that we're suspended in the air way over Vegas, the city. Blur beneath us. Extra blurry because I had to take my glasses off. The last thing I need is to donate my vision to the airspace over the city.

"That was fucking incredible!" Kitty yells as we get off. My knees are weak. I think the ride liquified them; I have no bones left in my body, only mush, and it takes everything to stumble off the ride and back to the safety of the observation deck, where I collapse onto a couch.

"I'm going to throw up."

"No you're not. That's probably just your stomach finding its place."

"Oh, god." I really do feel sick. I sit with my head down as Kitty fetches a bottle of water from the cafe and I down it all. "The human body was not designed for that kind of shit, what the fuck? Why do we do that to ourselves?"

"To feel alive in a world that's constantly telling us we're dying." Kitty perches on the couch next to me, her hand on my back, slowly rubbing up and down. It's nice. Soothing.

"I think I left my intestines behind," I groan.

"In a good way?"

I look up and raise my eyebrows at her. "You tell me."

"You know, when you full named me back there, I thought for sure you weren't getting on that ride," she says with a laugh. "You only call me Katherine when you're seriously pissed off."

"To be fair, I full named you about the death trap on the side of the tower. I last named you about that one." I point at the ceiling and drain the last drops of my water. Dehydration has hit with the full force of a truck out of nowhere.

"Ah, true, true," Kitty says. "Full naming means business. Last naming means you can be persuaded, clearly. Calling me Cohen is just flirting with danger, really. You're asking me to win you over."

"Yes, that's absolutely what I was doing. God, I'm so fucking thirsty, I think the last three days of heat is catching up with me." I stand to get more water but Kitty stands first and pushes me down my shoulders so I end up with her boobs in my face.

She comes back with three more bottles of water, two coffees, and two chocolate chip cookies and says, "Thank you for doing that with me." Her teasing tone is gone, replaced by sincerity. "I know it's not your thing but that was epic. Even if I am scarred for life."

I glance at her hand and hiss through my teeth at the four red welts I've left behind. "Shit, Kits, I'm sorry. I literally lost all motor function on that thing."

"Hey, at least you didn't shit yourself," she says, breaking her cookie into four pieces on a napkin.

"I swear I nearly did. My heart was in my ass and my ass was in my toes."

Kitty pouts. "Your poor tuchis. It's a miracle you're able to walk without pain," she quips, ducking when I thump her.

"You are such an asshole."

"You had fun!"

I glare at her. "I survived."

"Exactly. Half the thrill of roller coasters is the peril. That moment when you think you might not survive."

I sip my coffee (mediocre) and bite into my cookie (decent) and crack open my book. Kitty does the same, nestling up close to me like a needy little sister, like she's trying to work her way back into my good books. She is younger than me, but only by a few months – I'm a February baby; she's July. When she's like this, the gap seems bigger, and yet she's also the smartest, most mature, hardest-working person I know, reflected in her online persona. I love her online persona, don't get me wrong; I am so proud of her. But I love silly Kitty more. She reminds me of who we used to be, a couple of dorky eighteen-year-olds who didn't have a clue what we were doing when we landed in college.

"So..." she says, letting the word trail off into nothing. She pokes my knee, walks her fingers up my thigh until I put my book down and pay attention to those big eyes. "Want to bungee jump off the roof?"

*

do you like rollercoasters? i'm not a big fan, i haven't been on one in over a decade!