Thomas is the last man I fucked. Unfortunately, we have incredible sexual chemistry. But I hate him. I hate him more than almost anything, and I hate a lot of things. He is so corny and embarrassing. Of course he is hovering over my table with his big, overeager eyes.

“Emily!” he says with his repulsive Sagittarian enthusiasm. I’m also sickened by the sound of my name. I haven’t heard it in so long I almost forget it belongs to me. My parents named me after Emily Brontë because they are insufferable nerds. To be honest, I kind of like Wuthering Heights—it’s a very dark book—but Emily is just such a blah name. Couldn’t they have named me Charlotte? Or Catherine? Something classic and elegant and not a shitty suburban ‘90s name? Hell, Heathcliff would have been better than Emily.

“I thought you left LA!” Thomas says.

“No one calls me that,” I say.

“Calls you what? Emily?” He tugs at the bottom of his shirt like a little boy with ADHD. He’s tall and thin, but not in a graceful way. He’s nervy, awkward, restless. Like his body is this terrible accident. “What do you prefer to be called?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Please do not address me.”

He laughs so hard I feel acid rise up in my throat. “I’ve missed you, Em.”

“If there is anything worse than Emily,” I say, “it’s Em!”

He laughs again, then sits down across from me—so pre- sumptuous—and I curse myself for not having made up a lie about how my friend is in the bathroom and needs the seat.

“I have some dank weed if you wanna smoke,” he says. Fuck. This is always how he gets me. Thomas has amazing weed and he laughs at all my jokes, and unfortunately, he is mathematically good at making me come. I look around the room, desperate for Beau. If he was here I could scream “Rape!” or something and maybe he would save me. But he isn’t here. I am really in the mood to smoke expensive weed. And I haven’t had a real conversation in so long. I haven’t had sex with someone other than myself in … well, time is a construct.

“Fine,” I say. “I only have time for one hit.” I pause. “One to three hits.”

Thomas laughs again, and my eyes roll into my skull.