“Thanks,” she says. “It isn’t mine.” She doesn’t say whose it is. Now I think it would be nice to be famous, to just have a little white box in Malibu to hang out in with none of the stresses of owning property. She walks us through the open-plan kitchen/ living room. “The best is yet to come.”

She is right. The backyard is all bright greens and blues, perfectly manicured, with an infinity pool that overlooks the ocean. I haven’t ever seen anything that looks this alive in Southern California. I suppose this is what money does: allows you to cultivate spaces that feel alive in an arid region that is technically uninhabitable.

She takes us over to a little cabana by the pool. There is a small dog lying in a patch of sun beside it, an Italian greyhound or something fancy looking. “Hi, Tulip,” Stella coos. She picks up the dog and sits down on a pillow with the dog in her lap.

Thomas and I sit down across from her. I feel nervous, but luckily Thomas looks so spastic I seem calm in comparison. That is the nice thing about having Thomas around. I am always cooler than him.

“This is amazing,” Thomas says.

“I know,” Stella says. She pulls out a Juul and inhales for what feels like thirty seconds. She exhales thick rings that float up into the sunlight. “I just learned to do that.”

“Impressive,” Thomas says.

She hands him the Juul and he takes a hit. He tries to make rings and fails miserably. I laugh and so does Bella. I feel dizzy again. She hands the Juul to me and I shake my head.

“Good for you,” she says. “I’m trying to quit.”

“I have other vices.” I don’t want her to think I’m a square.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Your eyes.” She leans up close to me. I am used to this with laypeople, but Stella Shadid is known for being one of the most beautiful women on the planet, perhaps with surgical assistance, and she is looking at my eyes with awe.

“Amazing, right?” Thomas says.

God, I wish he would shut up.

Stella ignores him. “They’re insane.” She is still looking right into them. “They’re, like, cosmic. I’m obsessed. Can I take a photo?”

I shrug.

She pulls out her iPhone, which has all these weird attachments on it, and think fondly of Bo’s Pentax, then shove away the memory.

“Lean into the sun a little,” she says.

I do as told.

“Chin up.”

I lift my chin and she snaps some photos.

“Oh my god, these are stunning. You’re such a natural.”

She shows me the photos on her phone. Models always think they are photographers, but these are actually good. “I’ll put it on my story and tag you,” she says. “Do you have a personal Instagram?”

“No,” I say.