“Give me your card,” I say. “I’ll get us drinks.”

Thomas hands it over. “Keep it open,” he says.

I want to break my promise to get a cocktail and get a soda instead, pretend it is vodka. But I am so jittery at this point, I might actually need a cocktail. I like the way martinis look, but they are too strong; I could pass out. I order two glasses of champagne.

“Chic,” Thomas says when he sees the champagne glasses.

Everything he says and does embarrasses me, but I am trying not to break character, so I say, “Très chic,” and clink his glass.

“Hey,” he says. “I saw my coke dealer in the bathroom.” He pauses and puts his hand on my waist. I take a big sip to steady myself. “Any interest?”

I pause. I had a pretty serious coke phase a few years ago, one that experts would likely call a “problem.” It was when I was making good money. I liked that coke made me talk to people and made me interested in going to parties, where I met more people to give readings to, translating to more money. For a while, I even had something resembling a “social life.”

I met Thomas on cocaine, and he was the reason I stopped doing it. I woke up one morning with him beside me, and I was coming down and he’d sweat all over my bed. The sheets smelled like shit. I went into the bathroom and threw up, kicked him out of my house, deleted his number, and vowed to never do coke again. I haven’t done it since, and I haven’t felt the urge. Having no social life is better than having a fake social life that involves sleeping with Thomas. Then I remember I am sleeping with Thomas again. Well, I’m letting him go down on me in exchange for weed, an important distinction.

“Anyone home?” Thomas asks, tapping my forehead.

I chew my lip. Beau is here tonight. If there is a time for a little synthetic confidence, now is it. “I’m down,” I say.

Thomas opens his phone and shoots off a text. He seems pretty eager. I wonder if he has a problem. Everyone in LA, it seems, is a cokehead. This is probably why everyone drives like a maniac on the freeway—they’re all either coming up or coming down. I don’t miss driving at all.

While Thomas texts, I scan the room. It’s crowded. People keep bumping into me, each time splashing little bits of champagne into the air. I don’t want to ruin this dress, which I do not plan on returning to Thomas’s closet. Also, I have my laptop in my bag. So I chug the champagne in one gulp, put the glass down, and drag Thomas by the arm onto the dance floor.