What nail shape would you like, miss?” asked the manicurist, inspecting Sasha’s left hand. “Square? Round? Almond-shaped?”

Distracted, Sasha glanced up from the phone nestled on her lap.

“I’m sorry?”

“Almond?”

“Thank you, no, I can’t eat almonds,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Allergic.”

Physically, Sasha Cruz was getting a manicure. Mentally, she was inside her phone, working. She’d just landed the splashiest commercial in her career as a casting director—and so scrolling through audition clips was top priority. She was so distracted, in fact, that she was about to miss a Pivotal Moment.

To be fair, no one expects a Pivotal Moment to happen at an airport mini spa.

It was odd enough that Sasha was getting her nails done professionally. She was damned good at doing her own nails. And assessing her own stock portfolio. And rewiring her own kitchen. And silk-pressing her own hair. What couldn’t she do? Very few things; namely 1) drive, and 2) confront life without antidepressants. Sasha was raised to be self-sufficient by her single mom, a deadly practical electrician who played no games. “You handle your business! No crying and no suffering!” she’d tell Baby Sasha. Years later, she discovered that her mom hadn’t invented this quote. It was paraphrased from an old Juvenile song. But it stuck.

Sasha had arrived at New York City’s Fiorello Airport with a flawless, bloodred manicure. But sitting at her gate a full three hours early, she noticed a chip on her thumb. This wouldn’t do. She worked hard to cultivate her “minimalist upscale baddie” veneer. Even her casual airport ensemble made a statement. Razor-sharp bob. Winged liner. Impeccable jeans. Tiny tank. Diamond studs (fake). Cashmere throw (real). She looked impenetrable, unrufflable, unfuckwithable. A chip in her nail polish was a kink in her armor. After all, as a casting director, she was known for her eye.