I give in to the hug and try my best not to reveal my disgust. At least she doesn’t seem mad at me. She was always kind of a bitch—not to me, but to those she felt had “wronged” her. And I suppose now I am one of them.

“I miss you,” she says.

I know I should say, I miss you too, but that would be a lie. And while I lie all the time, this is a lie I feel physically incapable of telling. So instead I just ask, “Do you live here now?”

“Nope, still in Riverside.” She is wearing a jewel-toned silk top, black skinny jeans, ballet flats, and a bauble necklace straight out of a J.Crew catalog from 2012. “I’m an interior decorator now, so I was in San Dimas to see a client.”

“Cool,” I lie. Nothing about this is cool. I can’t believe that Zoe, in this outfit, is making a living in an aesthetic field. But if there is one thing you can count on in Southern California suburbs, it’s that the people will have terrible taste and they will spend lots of money to maintain it. They probably look at Zoe’s gold ballet flats and think, What a fun girl! I want her to decorate my kitchen!

“Oh! I ran into your dad the other day at HomeGoods in Moreno Valley,” she says.

This image strikes me as deeply depressing. Hazel the Precious Starlet sometimes talks about HomeGoods, but it seems more out of irony than necessity.

“He told me you are doing amazing in LA. Something about how you were cast in this new, hot movie? And you’re an astrologer for SpaceX?”

“Yep.” I smile weakly and wonder how long this conversation will last.

“So cool, Em,” she says. “I always knew you were destined for great things.”

Her phone buzzes and snatches her attention. I feel relieved.

“Crap,” she says. “I have to take this.” She looks back up at me. “It was so great to see you, Em. You look amazing, as usual.” She reaches into her Louis Vuitton purse. “Here— take my card.” She hands me the card, a crisp white square with gold cursive font: ZOE MAY DESIGNS. Her last name used to be Tucker, so I guess she took her husband’s name. I remember seeing a photo of him on Instagram and he looked like a thumb.

“Thanks,” I say, and Zoe May darts off.

DAWN.

A few days after I find Paul’s driver’s license on the floor of the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, Steph shows up at the Blind Pig. I haven’t heard from her since Thanksgiving, but I’ve thought about her a few times. Mostly mean things.