“Lone Star Girl,” he says and the air around us drops an inch, almost imperceptible. I meant to order food, but I’m no longer hungry. Because now is the moment. I chug, anticipate Henry’s voice, telling me what he wants; telling me that what he wants is me. Yes, I want to hear him say it. He watches me drink, smiling over his teeth, like he knows what I can’t know and always will.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “You remind me of someone.”

“That never feels like a compliment,” I say and wonder if he’s remembered me, somehow—a decade younger, belonging to a younger, purer face—from some bygone Instagram search hole he fell down when he was younger, too. He starts in with a story about an ex-girlfriend and money, but I’m in my head, scrolling imaginary search terms: #young, #teen, #model. I picture myself, editing posts, picking hashtags, picture Henry minus the glasses and graying hair, thumbing his Explore feed, finding me in the black dress Jake bought me, the black block heel pumps I’d picked to match, finding me posed in the backyard of the sex party house in the Hollywood Hills. There’s a Zen garden, sand raked in circles, a koi fish pool, steppingstones over the water. And in the distance, Los Angeles itself, one hundred thousand pins of light.

“Lone Star,” Henry says, “would you like to meet my dogs?” I wait for him to continue. “I’d be remiss not to ask,” he says, and I feel my pulse pick up, each beat counting down the hours until Aesthetica™, anesthesia, a darkness I may not return from. Six A.M., six hours out, the only surgery Dr. Perrault will perform in a day. He’s careful that way. And truth be told, there aren’t many people willing to assume the risks Aesthetica™ entails.

“I hope I haven’t offended,” Henry says.

“No,” I say, too fast. I reach into the pocket of my robe to remove my phone, and it’s like my hands are hooked to wires, commanding them from above. “Let me show you something.” I open Instagram, type Aesthetica™ into the Explore bar, where it’s already a frequent search behind @annawrey. The grid loads, stacked with women. In one frame, a face so riddled by bad cosmetic work it’s taken on the weighted, rubbery texture of a mask; in the next, the mask’s natural double, the woman it was fashioned after, returned to normality, her normal natural beauty.

“What is it I’m looking at?” Henry says as I pass him the phone. He squints over the top of his glasses. Why does his opinion matter? All at once, it feels like a permission I must have, in order to get what I want. It feels like he’s a husband, a father, a keeper of my freedom.