“That’s a hideous stereotype,” I say, then worry my comment was too harsh. I guess weed does make me self-critical. But it also makes me a lot nicer. Maybe I need to be more self-aware to engage with others, to keep my hostility in check. “That was a blunt too. Grape. Just like this.”

I watch some boys kick a soccer ball back and forth, silhouetted by the yellowish sky behind them.

My phone dings with another text from Bo. I’m so sorry again for wigging out earlier. I hope you’re having a great day and that we can recreate last night soon. ;)

“What’s lover boy texting?” Thomas asks. “Doesn’t he know to cool it when he finds out his girlfriend is his sister?”

And this time I finally laugh with Thomas. What the fuck else am I supposed to do? I’m sitting on top of Mount Rubidoux, the place I’d first smoked weed, smoking the same style of grape swisher, with the East Coast trust fund boy I completely use for his money and eagerness, who probably has never been to the Inland Empire in his life. I just stormed into my father’s office, an office I hadn’t been to since I was eleven, the same age from the photograph, when it was Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, a day I spent watching Beetle-juice on my dad’s desktop computer. And eighteen years later, I stormed into that office and accused my dad of having an affair decades prior. And three hours before that, I’d had the best twelve hours of my life. I felt the universe expand and I felt myself become earth, wind, and fire. And now the universe felt separate and hostile again, or maybe it didn’t exist at all.

“He doesn’t know,” I say finally.

Thomas tilts his head at me.

“He doesn’t know my real name,” I say. “He showed me the page of ‘his sister’ and it was me, and I gave him the phone back and told him to leave.”

“Damn, this is so juicy.” Thomas blows smoke toward the soccer players, and I watch it waft up into the sky. “Real Lifetime shit.”

“That’s what I said!” I take the blunt from his hand. “Before I realized his sister was me.”

Thomas laughs, and I laugh too. Thank God for cannabis, for helping me laugh at the most depressing parts of life. My therapist encouraged me to go to an OCD support group. A lot of the girls, girls with round faces and shiny hair, had intrusive thoughts about incest. I suppose my current reality would be their nightmare. I didn’t get those girls and I never went back to the group.

I take out my wallet from my bag, retrieve my driver’s license, hold it out over a rock, and snap a picture on my phone. Then I send it to Bo.