“Yeah,” I say. Now I’m even more nervous than if she’d noticed my age. When lesbians say my full name like this, it tends not to be a good sign.

She peers at me. “I do Tara Milken’s nails.”

“Fuck,” I say. I know how much Tara loved the girl who did her nails, which were a source of pride for her. (Some say lesbians can’t have long nails, but Tara proved that wrong; she had long nails and she used them with finesse.) I’d always been a little envious of her nail artist. She never said her name, just “my nail girl.” That’s what concerned me, that she could never say her name. Tara had a crush on her, I knew it, and she’d probably told Naomi everything about me, how terrible I am, about my moods and my rages.

“I should go,” Naomi says.

“Wait.” I reach for her arm, but she pulls away, like I’m a dangerous animal. “Wait, Naomi,” I say as she backs away from me. “At least stay for brunch … Tara says a lot of crazy things.”

But she’s already at the door, turning the knob. I feel that familiar heat rising, my blood beginning to boil.

“I hope you enjoyed fucking the love of my life, slut!” I shout.

But Naomi is already gone.

EMILY.

I wake up to a loud banging on my door and grab my phone. It’s 12:30 P.M., and I have four missed calls from my landlord. Fuck. I jump up and pick up a clean dress from the floor, quickly throw it on. The banging continues. I never normally wake up this late, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept hitting the bong and refreshing Beau’s Instagram. He posted a blurry photo of “the boys” smoking cigarettes outside of the Big Sleep at 3:00 A.M. I’m sure he’s deleted it by now. I thought about going, but I worried that by the time I got there he would be gone. I also worried I wouldn’t be able to get in. The place looks exclusive, and I look like garbage. I didn’t drift off until probably 5:00 or 6:00 A.M., when the light was turning blue outside my blinds.

The knocking continues. I put on my slippers and open the door.

It’s my landlord, Marta, and she does not look happy.

“Where’s your rent?”