The next morning, I remember I don’t have a car, and I curse myself for not thinking of this earlier. How am I going to get to San Dimas? An Uber will be astronomical. I am trying to save money. Also, I don’t want to show up in an Uber. I need my dad to think I have my shit together, which in Southern California means you have a car. So I text Thomas.

I need your car today.

Good to hear from you, Emily!

Sarcasm is so passé, I write back. I need to meet my father in San Dimas at 2. I look at my phone. It’s 11:00 A.M.

Ok, ok, he writes. I have a meeting at noon and I’ll come drop it off after.

Thank you!!!!! I assume “meeting” means sex date, but I really don’t need to know. I’m grateful for Thomas regardless of his terrible personality.

I assume you will pay me back …

I am typing out “fine” when he writes back, Just kidding!

I respond with an upside-down smiley face emoji and feel sad for a brief moment about my lack of self-respect. I was ready to give him a blow job to use his car. I am a prostitute.

My Instagram followers are still climbing. More followers means more readings and more articles and more money. Maybe astrology is back on top. Maybe “the market” was just taking “a dip.”

I work on my readings until around 1:00 P.M. Thomas isn’t here yet, so I text him. I want to leave by 1:15 to leave some time to get there on time.

Where are you? I text him. Lydia jumps on the bed. I get up and pour some stolen cat food into her bowl.

Cumming … Thomas texts back. Revolting.

You have 15 minutes, I write.

At 1:20, I hear a loud honk on the street. I peek out the window to see Thomas’s Volvo. He is leaning out the window with a joint hanging from his mouth. He looks like a fucking idiot. But I am excited to drive his fancy Swedish car.

“You’re late,” I say when I’m outside. He pulls the car beside the curb with the hazard lights on—something only an independently wealthy person would do. Then he jumps out and hands me the keys.

“You’ll be in San Dimas by two,” he says. “Any questions about ole Pearl?” He slaps the hood of his car like a dumbass.

“I know how to drive a car,” I say, refusing to acknowledge that he named his car after the inside of a mollusk. “I grew up in Southern California.”

“Okay, Cali girl,” he says. “When will you have her back?”