“She’s on one tonight!” Thomas shouts to no one.

On the dance floor, Thomas checks his phone. I scan the room. No sign of Beau.

“Oh man,” Thomas says. “He doesn’t sell anymore.” He pauses. “His shit was so good. That sucks.”

“Too bad,” I say, but I’m kind of relieved. I’m feeling the champagne, and if I add uppers into the mix, I might end up actually giving Thomas a blow job.

Thomas takes my hand and spins me in a circle. I pretend to enjoy dancing with him and with every turn I scan the room for Beau and my laptop hits me in the rib cage.

“You looking for someone?” Thomas finally asks. Then: “Am I not enough?”

“Sorry,” I say. “I just haven’t been out in a while. I’m just taking it all in.”

“Do you wanna sit down?” It’s loud as hell, so he leans into my ear to talk and gets a little spit on my cheek.

“Sure,” I say. Maybe this way I will get a view of Beau. Walking to the side, I notice a few guys in Dodgers hats checking me out. I haven’t gotten male attention in forever. At Mirror Box, no one is ever looking at me. They are looking at the dancers. Growing up, people were always looking at me. My jet-black hair stood out in the suburbs. I had a kind of morbid Wednesday Addams look. And then my freaky blue eyes were the icing on the weird cake. A word I got a lot in Riverside: “striking.” When I told my parents this, they said I should spend more time reading. They said I should think about my future. They said my physical appearance wouldn’t get me anywhere.

I said I’d prove them wrong, but I never did.

When I moved to LA, no one ever noticed me. “Striking” girls were a dime a dozen. The only ones who seemed to get anywhere were either daughters of directors or excellent at schmoozing, and I am neither.

Thomas squeezes next to some girls in shiny body-con dresses. They look like they could be from Riverside, not chic at all. This place is grim. I am not at all surprised that Thomas likes it here, but I am surprised that Beau likes it.

“How does it feel?” Thomas asks. He puts his hand on my knee. This acting job is becoming increasingly difficult. “Being out in the wild?”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say. Thomas tries to show me where it is, but I don’t want to know. I want to get lost and maybe run into Beau. I check every corner of the room that probably isn’t the bathroom. No sign of Beau anywhere.

On the toilet, I refresh his Instagram. Nothing. He must have left. He’s probably sleeping right now. I imagine his long black eyelashes fluttering on his pillowcase.