“My toe? It’s been better, I’ll say that.”

“What are you taking for it?”

Without waiting for a response, she moves to the bathroom, her plaid capelet flapping behind her. Next thing I hear is the sound of a medicine cabinet being opened and pillaged.

“Groan. Is this all you have? Dammital?” she calls out.

Dammital is her nickname for tramadol, a synthetic painkiller that’s not up to her standards, apparently. “I’ll send you something better once I get back to LA.” She makes a toking motion.

“Please don’t,” I beg. “I’ll get thrown in jail.”

She gasps and I follow her gaze to Bree’s Undersea DVD on the bookshelf.

She picks up the DVD and shakes it at me. “I let you out of my sight for two seconds and this is what you do? You’re tainted now.”

“I had to watch it for a job,” I answer defensively.

“Any job that requires this is not a good job.”

“It’s the only job I could get! Because you fired me!” I burst out.

“No, I relocated you. For your own good—”

“I don’t even know what that means! I was happy in LA!”

She studies me. “Were you?”

“Yes.”

“What were you happy about, specifically?”

“The beach,” I blurt out.

“The beach, right. Which one? Venice? Santa Monica? Ventura?”

“Santa Monica,” I answer, unaware I’ve walked into a trap.

“Santa Monica, of course! The one closest to you. When’s the last time you went?”

“Fine,” I grouse. “I miss the Getty.”

“Oh really? You must have seen the exhibit on medieval beasts. How was it? Tell me everything.”

“Fine, the Hollywood Bowl!”

“I know for a fact you haven’t gone there in years. Nick asked you to go, and you could have gone, but you said no, like you said no to everything that wasn’t work. I won’t be your excuse anymore,” she says. “I won’t be the reason you don’t make plans, or put yourself out there, or risk anything with anybody.”

“I’m so sorry I was a good assistant,” I snap. “I’m so sorry I took my position seriously and worked hard to help you.”

“You want to talk about work?” she responds calmly. “Okay, let’s talk about the script you’re writing.”

Shit.

“I’m still settling in,” I protest.

She looks around. “I don’t see any new pictures on the wall. No new shower curtain, no kitchenware, it’s almost like nobody lives here.”

“Look, I—”

“You’ve been here over two months. You must have something to show for it?” she prompts.

“The script’s . . . not really flowing,” I say. “I keep starting and stopping and then changing my mind. Nothing’s coming together.”

“Get out of the house,” she suggests. “Find a new place to write, it’ll reset your brain.”

“Yeah, like I said, there’s a café—”