“She’s tough,” he says.

“A classic Piscean understatement!” I say.

He laughs again, then I change the subject to Knife in the Water. We talk about the movie and finish our coffees. My dad starts commenting on the Freudian themes, monologuing the same way I did about astrology earlier. I zone in and out, fantasizing about Beau and thinking about how nice it is to be reconnecting with my dad, even though I’m not really listening to him.

“How’s Thomas?” my dad asks when we’ve exhausted Polanski.

“He’s good,” I say.

“I liked him, he’s a nice guy.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t know if we’ll last.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“He’s sort of a tool.”

My dad laughs. I guess he knows the word from his students. “He was a bit eager.”

“Beyond eager.” I laugh.

I think about Beau.

“To be honest, I have a crush on someone else.”

“Well,” he says, “you’re young. It’s probably smart to play the field a bit. No need to settle.”

I am tickled by the fact that my dad is encouraging me to “play the field.” I bet he feels like he settled with my mom and is now living vicariously through me, advising me to ho it up.

My dad says he needs to get back to grade papers, and I say I need to return to my charts for Elon. We exchange our first real hug in years, and I shed a tiny tear that neither of us acknowledge. I blame the MDMA for my strange reaction. Also, I haven’t been smoking nearly as much weed as usual. I am less numb.

When my dad leaves, I order another black coffee and start making notes for the “Signs as New Year’s Plans” piece.

Pisces: Ice-skating under the stars.

Taurus: At home alone.

Scorpio: A séance.

At around 5:00 P.M., a barista announces the start of an open mic poetry reading. There is truly nothing I want less than to bear witness to amateur poets in San Dimas.

As I begin to book it, I hear a vaguely familiar voice.

“Emily,” the voice says.

I look around to try to locate it. Oh my god. It is my former friend, Zoe. If there is one thing worse than an open mic poetry reading in San Dimas, it is having to engage in small talk with the childhood friend I ghosted.

“Emily!” she says again, louder this time, I suppose because the first poet has started reading something called “God’s Toothbrush.” She approaches me for a hug, among my least favorite social rituals. “Emily, it’s so great to see you!”