At home I feed Lydia and then feed myself—the last three slices of turkey and five saltines. Cinnamon and I agreed that she would stop responding to texts from the professor and I would have sex with Beau in no fewer than seven days. Seven days is a long time, but I can wait: I’ve been waiting my whole life. Growing up, Zoe would always say I was so “chill” with guys: “Em, you’re just so chillll. It’s like you don’t even care.”

Well, truth be told, I didn’t care. It was Riverside. There was no one there worth caring about. I did care about getting my clit sucked, my tits nibbled, my g-spot stroked, but no boy from Riverside knew how to do those things. In high school I mostly hooked up with women because they were better in bed. But I never fell for any of them, nor did I tell Zoe. She wouldn’t have understood and would have probably said something unoriginal, like called me a “big lesbo.” She didn’t care about her own desire, only about meaningless validation from idiots.

In my early twenties, I met a few boys in Los Angeles who were decent in bed. They were all either tryhards like Thomas or sociopathic models whose bodies were enough to get me off. Or they were women who were great until they fell in love with me, started bombarding me with novella-long text messages filled with wicked accusations. I am positive things will be different with Beau. I can tell by watching him move and by the way he photographed me—gently but with purpose. It won’t be like Thomas, who eats me out like he’s reading from a manual. Or the women who were great until their daddy issues took over.

Sex with Beau will be great because our bodies understand each other, like they are quantum entangled, a phenomenon I read about while researching Elon. SpaceX is really romantic if you think about it, just a bunch of Pisces launching rockets into the sky. Elon launched a drone ship called Of Course I Still Love You, which is an insanely Piscean thing to do, although Elon is a Cancer, another very romantic sign.

Beau’s Venus is in Pisces, and they are the best lovers of the zodiac.

I brush the saltine crumbs into my palm, then into the trash. I plop on my bed and open my text messages. I put a thumbs-up on Beau’s text—casual—then start typing.

How was the big interview? I ask.

I don’t think I got it :(, he responds. So adorable.

Maybe you did! I write back. And if you didn’t, it just means that a better opportunity is on the way. This is the kind of new age spiritual logic I typically mock, but right now, at this moment, it feels right.