Thank you for impressing my parents and paying for dinner, I write.

It was my pleasure :), he writes back.

God, the smiley face emoticon. Vile.

As soon as I start walking again, my dad calls. I am disturbingly popular this morning. I hate phone calls, but I answer nonetheless. It doesn’t feel like a choice.

“Hi, Em.” I guess my dad isn’t so bad. My mom is the problem. Maybe I can encourage him to get a divorce.

“Hi, Dad,” I say. “Last night was fun.”

“I agree,” my dad says. “I was just calling to say thank you for dinner last night. I enjoyed meeting Thomas, and I’m so proud of all you’ve accomplished.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say. “Must be good genes.” My Gemini moon again. Or just being human. Random and unpredictable.

My dad laughs appreciatively, which makes me feel good.

“Did Mom have fun?” I ask. I hate how much I crave her approval. It is pathetic.

“I think she did,” my dad says, and anger flares up in my gut. Clearly she didn’t believe a word I said. And the annoying thing is that she is right. I am the pathetic loser she thinks I am. I try to think about Stella Shadid and Beau Rubidoux to put my brain in a more pleasant place. It doesn’t work.

“Have you ever thought about getting a divorce?” I ask without thinking.

My dad laughs. “You’ve always had a unique sense of humor, Em.” He reminds me of Thomas for a second, the way he assumes I am joking whenever I am sincerely being a major bitch. They say women marry their fathers. Am I going to marry Thomas and have a child of whom I am deeply ashamed? And then resent Thomas even more for seeing promise in my cursed offspring? I swiftly abandon this line of thinking. Because I’m going to marry Beau. I am more convinced of this than ever.

“Elon is on the other line,” I say. “I gotta run. Thanks for calling.”

“I won’t keep you,” he says. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” I say, and I think I mean it.

After my third chart reading, I open my email, energized. I like having a purpose, and they are playing good music at Subtropical. None of the typical hip crap. They are playing music with soul, like Vertical Horizon.

Dawn Webster, the cursed Riverside woman whose chart I read, emailed me to say she wants to buy me a drink. I laugh a little. This isn’t the first email like this I’ve received. My fans are always trying to be my friends. But friends are the last thing I need.

I delete the email.

Refinery29 wants me to write an article called “Best Holiday Gift for Each Zodiac Sign.” I agree, then start taking notes in my Lisa Frank notebook.