Thomas and I visited my parents for Christmas. It was hard to see my mom, but she was on her best behavior. We didn’t talk about Nico Nadler or Elon Musk, and when my mom was cleaning up, I fessed up to my dad about my lies. I felt okay telling him because he was a liar too, and his lies hurt me far more than mine hurt him. He said he understood and that he had a feeling about Nico Nadler based on a run-in he’d had with my ex-friend Zoe at HomeGoods. Also, he said I’d said something factually incorrect about SpaceX, but I zoned out when he told me what it was.

When I was almost done with my book proposal, Bo told me he’d met our dad. It was so weird the way he said it. “Our dad.” I had a brother. I wasn’t an only child. I tried to imagine what that trip to Big Bear would have been like with an equally pale, inside-type brother to watch movies with me.

I was mostly silent while Bo spoke. I tried to be a good listener, but my brain was also pulling me elsewhere. I wasn’t ready to listen to him talk about bonding with my dad—my only family member who doesn’t repulse me.

But the day before my dad’s birthday, I watched Bo spill a soup all over himself and the floor. I felt unbearably sad for him. I helped him clean it up and then asked if he wanted to come to my dad’s birthday dinner.

And now we are in the car, on CA Route 60, and my agent is telling me Simon & Schuster is offering a $400,000 advance for my book. I feel weird. I need money, but I still want to be an actress. What type of person goes from writer to actress? It is normally the other way around.

“They love the part about you fucking your brother,” my agent says.

I didn’t put that part in my book proposal, but my agent did gently coerce me into revealing the fact to her, after asking a bunch of leading questions about the “worst-case scenario” I alluded to in my article.

I feel queasy.

But obviously I will say yes. My agent will send me the contract, and I will pretend to read it, but I won’t. I will just sign.

When I hang up the phone, we are passing the outline of Mount Rubidoux.

“What was that about?” Thomas asks.

“I have a book deal,” I say quietly into my lap.

DAWN.

On my walk to work, the sun is bright as hell and beads of sweat pour from my armpits. I keep wiping the sweat with a tissue in my purse to avoid staining my baby-blue tank top.