I force a weak smile.

The catalog model comes over and grabs Jax’s hand, and he follows her onto the dance floor without saying goodbye. The molly begins to turn on me, and I feel like a loser, standing here in a Juicy tracksuit in a roomful of models and musicians and photographers and influencers.

“He’s on one,” Beau says, apologizing for Jax.

A body hurls itself at Cinnamon. “Bittcchhhhhhh,” the stranger says, grinding up against her.

“Babe!” Cinnamon squeals. They start moving toward the dance floor.

And poof, I have exactly what I want: just Beau and me, alone, facing each other. No one to interrupt us. I know music is playing, intellectually, but I hear only my heartbeat and Beau’s breath.

I’m afraid. I sip some more whiskey and it calms me, and I again wonder if I should just become an alcoholic like everyone else.

“How do you know Cinnamon?” Beau asks.

I’m thankful he broke the silence. “I’m a regular at Mirror Box,” I say, and my eyes float up to the tin ceiling, which reflects various shades of neon light. I’m freezing up again like I did at Subtropical. I want to be alone with Beau, but I also want Cinnamon to come back and speak for me.

“That’s cool,” Beau says.

The silence creeps back in, and I rack my brain for something to ask him, a fascinating observation, a cool sound— anything! But I’m drawing a total blank. Luckily he opens his mouth.

“What are you always working on at Subtropical?”

My heart jumps. He’s been watching me. I’m so excited I forget to answer.

He looks back at me expectantly.

“I’m writing a screenplay,” I say finally. I can’t let him know I’m an internet astrologer or a failed actress like every other woman in LA. I tried to write screenplays in my early twenties. But after a while it felt like a waste of time. Complete sentences don’t make money. Memes make money.

“What’s it about?” he asks.

I sip my whiskey to buy some time, and Cinnamon reappears with some random girl.

“Crystal is taking us to another party,” Cinnamon says to me. “I need to steal her,” she says to Beau.

Beau looks disappointed, which means Cinnamon’s plan is working.

“Thanks for inviting us,” I tell Beau.

“Thanks for coming.” He takes a big swig of his drink. “Do you have an Instagram?”

“No,” I say, then Cinnamon pulls me into the hallway, the sea of bodies and splish-splash of drinks.

Outside, Crystal gets in a Lyft, and Cinnamon and I decide to walk back to Thai Town. We are high and awake and immune to the cold night air. We discover we are neighbors. Cinnamon lives just two blocks from me.