TO PICNIC WITH FRIENDS

You know what you should do?” he texted. It was the spring of 2019. Winter was just fading. “Come out here to Vegas!” He was my pal Connor Kennedy, the guitar virtuoso who would turn 25 a few months later.

I laughed. I’m an addict in recovery. Part of my addiction, which I chronicled in my memoir Hats & Eyeglasses, was to online poker. And although I sometimes play live poker, Las Vegas isn’t a good place for someone like me, someone prone to excess, someone who thinks 3:30am is prime decisionmaking time. “That’s not gonna happen, boychick,” I texted back.

Connor was in Vegas for a three-month residency, playing guitar with Steely Dan. It was a dream job. More than that, even. But he was alone a lot and wanted company. “My hotel doesn’t have a casino,” he texted a few nights later. “It’s where all the musicians stay. The rooms have nice little kitchens. I bought a cast iron pan. I’ve been making steaks.”

I laughed. Food was our language. And a good steak never hurts. But I forgot about it, and him, for a couple of days. Then I got this text: “Please come. I’m losing my mind. Everyone else in the band goes home when we’re not playing. Vegas isn’t a good town to be alone. Plus, I found the greatest breakfast place, off The Strip, with the best iced coffee and the most incredible savory porridge.” where we basically—and happily—ordered everything on the menu. On our last night I went to The Venetian to see Connor play with Steely Dan. On the way through the hotel, I had a full-blown panic attack. I couldn’t tell if the clouds were a glimpse of the outside or painted on the ceiling; if the people in the gondolas were real, if the sounds were birds or slot machines. Connor saw it happen and didn’t say a word, just strode behind me, put a hand on my waist and propelled me forward. He sat me at the first slot machine we came to and just stayed with me ’til I could breathe again. We never talked about it again.

I could say I booked the trip because he was losing his mind, but congee for breakfast is my dream. And he knows it. I booked a flight that night. He picked me up in a Mustang convertible, and that car set the tone.

That winter my husband Steve Heller and I were in Los Angeles and Connor was, too. In the mornings during our stay, he’d leave involved texts about where we should eat and what we should order. This guy definitely works best with a set list.

Steve and I decided to leave LA a week early. It was clear something was happening in Europe, and it sounded scary. I mentioned to Connor that he should either get a place for a month (he’d been staying at a friend’s guesthouse) or come home. “Really?” he asked over and over.