It is also possible that I did run into Zoe, after ten years, twice in one week. The first time I saw Winona Ryder in the flesh, she was walking into an Italian restaurant as I was leaving this very Gelson’s. And then I saw her again the very next day at a Starbucks in West Hollywood after an audition. I had just moved to LA, and I felt like the universe was trying to tell me something. Obviously I was wrong, but the point is—these things happen. I’ve seen Winona Ryder only twice in real life and it was within forty-eight hours. The only difference is Winona doesn’t know who I am, doesn’t know my parents, doesn’t have the ability to expose me.

“Everything okay, miss?” a stock clerk asks.

“No,” I say, then walk out of the store.

I want to text Cinnamon, but I am too ashamed.

So I walk to Thomas’s house and listen to The Bends on the way.

I should have been suspicious when I ran into Zoe in San Dimas. She had no reason to be nice to me. I had aggressively ghosted her. For years she sent me effusive texts about how much she missed me, and I just pretended she didn’t exist. Zoe is a Scorpio like me, and Scorpios do not appreciate being ghosted. We like to be in complete control of the friendship, its terms, when it begins and when it ends. I don’t know her full chart, but she must have a Cancer or Libra rising, something spineless that made her continue to reach out to me like that.

I don’t think I’ve ever been ghosted. If I had, I would probably enact revenge, just like Zoe.

I know where Thomas hides his key—under the doormat, like an idiot—so I let myself in. The same girl who was there the other day is straddling Thomas on the couch.

“You don’t knock?” Thomas asks.

The blonde hops off his crotch.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“What’s wrong with you?” Thomas asks. He’s never been aggressive like this with me before. I worry he’s sick, or maybe he’s in love.

“I ran into my childhood friend, Zoe.” I walk over to the half-packed bong on the coffee table and take a big hit. “Zoe is an interior designer,” I say. “Zoe May Designs.”

The blonde nods, and I blow smoke into her face.

“Her mentor is decorating Nico Nadler’s new office,” I say, giving Thomas a homicidal glare. “She told me when I ran into her at Gelson’s.”

“Which Gelson’s?” the blonde asks.

I blow some more smoke in her face, ignoring her question. “She told me that Nico Nadler has no idea who I am,” I say.