My cheeks are on fire. I need to say something. Anything! I can ask him what he is up to this afternoon or whether he is working on any interesting photography projects. My go-to when I am uncomfortable is to ask to read someone’s chart, but I already read it, and he doesn’t know that, and I don’t want him to think I’m an astrologer. I want him to think I am an actress, the real me—not who I am, but who I should be. I try to see this moment as a scene in a movie, one in which I have to play a confident woman who is great at flirting. But I can’t get myself there. I guess this is why I’ve never been cast in a film.

“Well.” His eyes sparkle. “I just wanted to say hi.”

Then he starts to leave. I am so mad at myself. Say something! my inner voice shouts, but “Thanks” is all I can manage.

Beau is leaving the restaurant, and I want to die. I haven’t felt this angry since my parents nixed the Nickelodeon show. But at least then I could externalize my anger: it was their fault. This time I have no one to blame but myself.

The hot waiter comes over and asks if I need anything.

“A noose?” I say without looking up. He laughs really hard. Too hard. Everyone in LA is or has been suicidal, so these types of jokes are low-hanging fruit. But I’m not joking. I want to disappear.

I leave a five-dollar bill on the table and walk out.

I stomp to Food 4 Less. When I had more money, I’d go to Ralphs. When I was “rich,” I’d go to Gelson’s. But it’s Food 4 Less … 4 now.

The garish fluorescent lighting inside the store reflects my spraked state of mind. I can’t believe I blew it with Beau. My body feels like it’s been hit by a truck. But I need to get food for Lydia and, I guess, myself.

As I scan the aisle for the cheapest cat food, my mind replays the various ways the conversation could have gone. I could have asked Beau about his plans for the evening. I could have asked him about his favorite photographers. I could have asked him what he really thinks of Thomas.

I could have told him my name.

I can’t believe I didn’t even tell him my name.

He’d said, “I’m Beau,” and I said, “I remember,” like a fucking creep.

My legs feel heavy and I almost fall to the floor.

Then I hear a voice, a soft “hi” in my direction. It’s a familiar voice, but I can’t exactly place it. I don’t want anyone talking to me. I obviously cannot handle being spoken to.