Armed with dampened paper towels, I dust while listening to music. Then I close my eyes and just listen to music, hoping to coax my muse out. The problem is, I don’t like any of my screenplay ideas. When I was a teenager, I wrote fanfic (aka “fixing what TV shows did wrong, or expounding upon what they did right”) and I always assumed it was practice for writing my own stories. That was supposed to be the goal, after all. And when I got the gig with Mary, I told her I wanted to be a screenwriter. I’d barely heard of script doctoring, didn’t know there were people whose jobs it was to help shape other people’s screenplays. But Mary sent me here to write original material—she’s subsidizing me, essentially. It’s what she thinks I should do, so I have to keep at it. I have to at least try.

When I needed a creative jump start in LA, I’d stroll the La Brea Tar Pits. The thick, primal, bone-trapping smell reaching out from the earth’s sordid past comforted me for reasons I couldn’t begin to explain. Random fact: La Brea in Spanish means “tar pits,” so we’re all actually going around saying The Tar Pits Tar Pits.

When that didn’t work, well, I’d get stoned. That’s not an option in New York, unless I go through the trouble of procuring a medical marijuana card. (What would I say my health issue is, “dependent on weed”?) There is wine in the fridge, however. I just need half a glass, something to mellow me out, get rid of the low-key panic running through me all the time.

Half a glass turns into three or four. I’ve never been a day drinker, so chalk that up as another reason this city is ruining me. Six hours of buzzed YouTubing later, I guiltily open Final Draft. I have wasted this whole day. Nothing’s working! Everything I write I end up deleting.

My hand darts of its own volition to a different folder: my secret treasure trove of Jude messages, copied and pasted from our conversations the past few weeks.

The only person who makes me feel even slightly like I’m not drowning is Jude. I click on a document, and relief settles on me like a soft, cool, satin sheet.

* * *

Right before dinner, Bree tells me to message Jude later to confirm their upcoming plans tomorrow. She can’t do it herself because she’s going out with her girls and they apparently confiscate each other’s phones. (But how will the rest of us spend our evenings if we don’t get to see what they eat? I wonder sarcastically.) I’m just sore because three days ago, Bree and Jude snuck off on a smoothie date without me knowing.