In the morning I have hundreds of reading requests, which means thousands and thousands of dollars. I know I need to do some saving, but I also think I deserve a little treat. Lydia too. Instead of Food 4 Less, I’ll go to Gelson’s. I will buy myself organic turkey and organic Gatorade and maybe a nice cheese, like a Beaufort or a gouda. And I will buy fresh tuna for Lydia.

Before I leave, I take a big bong hit of the weed I stole from Thomas.

On the walk, Beau texts me, I got the photos back. Then three flame emojis. I smile at my screen. I can’t wait to see them, which is exactly what I text back.

I can email you a link to the digital version, he writes. And I can give you the hard copies in person.

Ugh. I want to meet up with him right at this moment and look at the photos and then kiss. But it’s day six. Cinnamon said we can’t fuck until day seven at the earliest. And I know if I see him, we will fuck. My OCD wants to stick to Cinnamon’s arbitrary rule system. I trust her. She is a Scorpio stellium. But beyond that, she is my friend. My first friend I’ve ever liked.

I actually got a job waiting tables at Subtropical, Beau writes. I’ll be there until 9 tonight if you want to swing by.

I do, in fact, want to swing by. So badly. So badly that it feels good to deny myself. I can’t today, I have a meeting, I write. Maybe tomorrow. I guess he didn’t get the Alex Prager job. It makes sense that he would wait tables at Subtropical. He has the right bone structure. I get kind of hot thinking about women like me deeming him the “hot waiter” in their heads. Hazel waited tables at this place in New York called Dimes Square, which I imagine as New York’s Subtropical.

Cool, he writes. I work the same hours tomorrow.

I look up from my phone, and I am at the entrance to Gelson’s, thrilled it is not Food 4 Less. The people walking in and out of the store wear loose silk shirts and designer sunglasses. I feel embarrassed by my haggard outfit, then remember that fashion is dead. Better to avoid trying. I adjust my gait to something approaching self-assured and sashay through the automatic doors.

While I am looking at tuna, I hear a familiar voice. “Emily.”

An intense chill runs down my spine.

I turn my body, slowly, carefully.

First, I see the gold ballet flats. Then I look up to make eye contact with Zoe fucking May. She is wearing a thin black scarf around her neck. It looks like a designer noose.

“I can’t believe it,” she says. “Two times in one week.”