The last time I had a friend in the sense of having regular communication and keeping each other up to date on our lives, I believe, was in high school. Zoe’s parents had a pool and a lake house in Tahoe. She would share all her clothes with me and tell me I was beautiful and, specifically, that she wanted to look like me. We had fun together, sometimes, but ultimately she became way too needy. I had to ghost her. It took nearly three years of no responses for her to stop texting me. The last I checked, she was still in Riverside with a husband and a baby, like nearly everyone I know from my past.

I suppose she was the original Thomas. Except she never went down on me. Although sometimes I had a feeling she wanted to.

At Subtropical, I walk right to my typical spot in the corner. I don’t see Beau, but I don’t not see him either. I’m not looking. I feel anxious, but when I catch my reflection in the shine on the table, my expression is serene.

I continue to take notes for my Donald Trump meme, which was sidetracked by last night’s film marathon. I also have thirty-five readings left, and it’s nice knowing I have tasks to occupy my brain and lots of money coming my way. I write my notes in my Lisa Frank notebook.

Taurus … pasta with a cream-based sauce.

Aquarius … aliens!!!

Aries …

I start drawing hearts again. And then, like clockwork, magic, or divine intervention, a figure appears above me. I don’t have to look to know who it is.

Beau is wearing his typical uniform: white T-shirt, black jeans. He is holding a slim laptop under his arm.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, gesturing toward the table beside me.

“Nope,” I say.

He sits down with an enticing combination of awkwardness and grace—stiff, but cool. He opens his laptop and I try not to look at the screen. I close my notebook and return my gaze to my laptop. We are so close to each other, but also staring at our laptops. The screens provide a comforting barrier.

“How was that other party the other night?” Beau finally asks, not looking up from his computer.

I briefly consider whether to lie. I decide against it. I’ve had enough free acting lessons in the past few weeks. “We didn’t go,” I say.

“Oh,” Beau says. He seems offended, maybe, maybe not. It’s hard to tell what he is thinking or feeling. Zoe always said the same thing about me, before I ghosted her—that I was impossible to read.

“We were tired,” I say. “It had been a long night.”