WtfBeau’s birth chart is beautiful. Perfect interwoven lines, a tapestry, a spiderweb. Two grand trines (lucky) and a kite (extremely lucky). It’s elaborate yet perfectly balanced. An art piece. His birth chart belongs in the Met, or maybe MoMA. Definitely an art museum in New York. It’s too sophisticated for LACMA.

Aries sun, just where Aries is supposed to go, where it is exalted.

Moon in Taurus, where Taurus is supposed to be. It’s also exalted there.

Mercury in Virgo, also exalted.

Mars in Capricorn. Exalted. I’ve never seen anything like it.

It continues like this as I go down.

Exalted.

Exalted.

Exalted.

I don’t believe in astrology, but I believe in this. It feels like a sign. I need to know more. I need to meet this person, this man—

I look back at the email and there is a simple signature at the bottom.

Beau Rubidoux.

A French name. A regal name. A fancy name. The name of a king or a god. The name of the person who will save me from my sad life.

I don’t know Beau Rubidoux, but I love Beau Rubidoux. And I have so much love to give. That’s what my therapist said before I couldn’t afford to pay her anymore.

DAWN.

I am smoking my third Marlboro Ultra Light out the window when I see my neighbor’s Honda Fit roll up to the carport. I drop my cigarette into the empty Coke can I’m using as an ashtray, then light a match to mask the smell. I wave the air with my hands. When I hear her car door open, I shut the window, then run back over to the couch.

I spin my toe ring and stare at 48 Hours—these rich sisters killed their parents for the life insurance policy. I feel like shit. I’m out of Cook’s and therefore annoyingly sober for a Friday night. I want to go out or at least get drunk. I’ve just been broken up with. I pick up my phone and there is still nothing from Tara. I type, You evil alcoholic, I hope you like the heat because you’re going straight to hell. Then I think about that grimy jail cell, about that freaky court-appointed therapist, and about having to go back to work at the Blind Pig. I just shut off my phone, grab my wallet and my keys.

“Hi, Dawn,” I hear as soon as I step outside. It’s Karen, my neighbor. “You haven’t been smoking inside again, have you?”

“Of course not, Karen,” I say.

“I just got a big whiff when I got out of my car.”