She nods, fear in her eyes, seemingly trying to convey sympathy to spare her life.

“But Nico Nadler has a movie coming out in less than a month,” I say. I notice a grinder filled with weed and some rolling papers on the coffee table.

“Phantasy?” the blonde says. “It looks incredible.”

I glare at her. “Not the point, babe.” I recall my earlier run-in with Zoe and shiver. “The point is my dad has been going around Riverside running his mouth about how I’m Nico’s next muse.”

“So … you’re worried your dad will see the movie press and find out you aren’t in it,” the blonde says, affecting a therapist’s voice, “and you’ll be exposed.”

“Bingo,” I say. “And it’s all because of Little Thomas here.”

“Why don’t you just tell your dad you’re in the next Nico Nadler movie?” Thomas says.

I pause, considering this. The next next Nico Nadler movie. I can tell him when I said I was in the next Nico Nadler movie I wasn’t counting Phantasy, because Phantasy had already been completed and I knew this because I’m in the industry. I was talking about the next next one, the one that hasn’t been filmed yet.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” I throw the Volvo keys at Thomas, and instead of catching them he just ducks like a pussy, and the keys hit the floor with a thud. I walk over to the coffee table and pick up the grinder filled with weed. “I’m taking this,” I say, and then I walk out.

At home, I try to calm down. I have my big shoot in the morning, and I need to get some sleep. I pack the bong and take a nice big rip. I lie on my bed and the anger starts to dissipate. I am in the next next Nico Nadler movie. Not Phantasy. The one after that. I take some deep breaths and put on Kid A and set my alarm for 6:00 A.M. I will wake up and go for a jog and take a cold shower and prepare myself to look perfect before Beau’s blessed lens.

Everything is in its right place.

DAWN.

After my shift Steph and I go to the Purple Parrot. Jay’s Bar would be better, but we don’t want to make the drive. We want to get drunk immediately.

“How did you end it?” I ask on our second drink. We are drinking Red Bull vodkas because they remind us of our twenties, when we were invincible.

“I didn’t,” Steph says. She looks down at her drink and swirls it with her straw.

“What the fuck?” I say. “Beth broke up with you?” My shock is genuine. Steph is so much better than Beth; the idea of Beth ending it is hard to grasp.