“I don’t read it off an app,” I say. “I use the app for the planetary calculations, as that’s how we do things in the modern age, and then I will use my brain to interpret the calculations for you.” I pause. “Do you know how to interpret a birth chart?”

This shuts her up.

“Okay,” I say. The information loads and I delight in being correct. Sagittarius rising, like I expected. A bunch more Libra. Nothing too interesting.

I proceed to tell her what it all means. I try to be polite, to gas her up. I don’t tell her about all her planets in fall, which is the opposite of exalted—not good.

“Wow,” she keeps saying. “This is all so scary accurate.”

I get this kind of reaction all the time. Most times, actually. People are just so stupid. Especially this girl, whatever her name is. I guess I’ll find out when I get paid.

When I’m done, I show her my Venmo page.

“You mean business,” she says, then laughs—another nonjoke.

“Gotta pay rent somehow,” I say, then swallow.

Thomas asks me if I’m ready to smoke, and I practically jump out of my seat.

“You hang out with twenty-three-year-old women now?” I ask, inhaling.

“Pardon?” he says in a bad French accent.

I pull out my phone. Thankfully, I have a Venmo payment for $250 from someone named Jessica. God, such a suburban name. Almost worse than Emily.

I wave the phone in his face.

“Why did Jess pay you two hundred and fifty dollars?”

“I read her chart,” I say. “She was born in 1996.”

“Oh,” he says. “I always forget you do that.”

“Lucky you,” I say.

He takes the joint from my hand, and for a second I remember that he had those very fingers inside me less than thirty-six hours ago.

“Hey,” I say. “So I need you to spot me some weed, like to take home. Work is tough right now.”

“Okay,” he says. “I can spare you a few nugs.” He pauses. “But you’d have to come home with me.” Then a terrible wink.

My high hits right then, so I agree.

Back inside, everything is more bearable. I enjoy watching the hot waiters march around, and I don’t even mind that Drake—my least favorite Scorpio—is playing.

When I sit back down, I take a big gulp of water. My mouth is dry as hell.

“Oh my gosh,” Jess says. “Your eyes are so red.”

She is all up in my face, and I lean back and look at my phone, ignoring her. “Must be the pot,” I say without looking up, and she laughs way too hard. One thing I’ve noticed about being an unpleasant bitch most of the time is that people will laugh extremely hard at your jokes because they’re desperate to relieve the tension.

Without thinking, I open Beau’s Instagram page.