“Fuck,” the blonde says. She reaches for the bong. “And you’re worried she’s going to tell your dad and expose you?”

“Bingo,” I say.

The blonde lights the bong, and my brain goes, Blonde bong, bong blonde.

She breathes out smoke like a dragon.

“Tell your pops the interior designer is unhinged,” says Thomas.

I giggle at the word “pops.” Then I stop laughing. Maybe Thomas is right. In third grade, Zoe told everyone that her cousin was Monica Lewinsky. This is partially why I decided to befriend her. I didn’t believe her cousin was Monica—no one did—but I appreciated the gall.

The point is: Zoe is a liar. She saw an opportunity to humiliate me, her ex-best friend who ghosted her, and she snatched it. I highly doubt Zoe May of Riverside is in any way connected to an auteur director in Los Feliz. And if her mentor truly is decorating Nico Nadler’s office, Zoe wouldn’t embarrass herself by telling her mentor to drop my name.

Without thinking, I text Beau. Meeting canceled, I write. I have to fuck him tonight. These are extenuating circumstances. I can break Cinnamon’s arbitrary rule by one day.

The blonde perks up. Her eyes are very red. “Tell him you have a stage name.”

I pause. That’s a good idea. My dad knows I hate my name. Everything is fine. Zoe lied, and if she didn’t, I have a stage name.

“This is why I keep Clover around,” Thomas says. “She’s smarter than she looks.”

She slaps him playfully on the knee and then turns toward me. “What’s your stage name?”

“Ice Forrest,” I say.

Roll through, Beau writes back.

I grab a small nug of weed from the plastic bag on the table, kiss Clover on her forehead (she blushes), and walk out.

I listen to The Bends again on the walk to Subtropical. I text Cinnamon: I’m breaking the pact. I can’t wait to have Beau inside me. Finally, after all these years, a dick I deserve.

She texts back almost immediately: Me too.

Who knew having a friend could be so nice?

Rules are made to be broken!!!!!! I write back.

She hearts the text.

The sky begins to pinken.

My eyes lock with Beau as soon as I enter Subtropical. He gives me a face, like, I’m so over this, and I smile at my Converse sneakers.

I sit in the couch area where I met JessLovesMatcha. I never responded to her messages about the breakup, and I don’t plan to. I have nothing to say about that kind of thing.

Soon Beau is hovering over me, wearing a tight white shirt, his cheekbones illuminated by golden candlelight.

“Hey,” he says. “Can I get you something?”