A few days later, Beau geotags a post at a coffee shop/ restaurant/bar called Subtropical. I’ve been there before. Before my cousin Rachel moved to San Francisco, she used to make me “cowork” with her there occasionally. She was a freelance publicist who introduced me as a “journalist” to her friends. She clearly hung out with me because my aunt made her, and I hung out with her because I knew it was good for me—medically speaking—to have some social interaction. But I couldn’t stand her. And she was horrible to work with. She’d just drink three to four margaritas and “hop on a call” and annoy everyone around us. I eventually told her I only felt comfortable working places without alcohol (I lied about being in AA), and she said she understood and then stopped asking me to cowork with her. And then she moved to San Francisco. And I was relieved. I officially had no one asking me to do things: a dream.

I don’t know if the photo is fresh, but I am overcome with a strong urge to get to Subtropical—immediately. I begin frantically rummaging through my closet for something other than a Juicy tracksuit. I sold most of my clothes in the past year, but I saved two plain black dresses in case I ever audition again.

I pull out a black dress from the corner of my closet and run a lint roller over it. Lydia looks at me quizzically, probably because she’s never seen me in a hurry before. I am nervous and jittery, but it feels exciting to have somewhere to go.

I order an UberPool because my car died a few months ago. Inside the Uber, I keep refreshing Beau’s Instagram, hoping for an Instagram story, some sort of clue, but nothing appears. Then I go back and stare at the Subtropical photo. He’s with one of his blondes. They’re all starting to blend together, but I think this is the suspected Aquarius. I thought about dyeing my hair blond when I first moved to LA, but then a casting agent said my black hair was exotic.

I didn’t get the role.

As the Uber crawls down Sunset, I begin to devise a plan. I can’t just approach Beau like a stalker. I can’t pretend to recognize him from his Gmail either because he has no profile photo. Also, that would be beyond creepy. I’ll just get a table in the corner and try to gather clues, figure out what he’s like and how to enter his orbit.