The video depicts Ariana Grande singing and dancing, but her face has been sloppily covered with Bree’s profile pic. Ariana’s brown ponytail shoots out the top of Bree’s head, not unlike the party pylon hairdo, come to think of it. She (and the Weeknd, because Clifford’s obsession continues) sing that if I want to keep them, I need to love them harder. Then Clifford walks toward me in front of a white screen.

“Here’s the sitch-a-roo. Your client filled out a customer survey, and she gave you a”—he cringes—“one out of five for user satisfaction. That’s almost the worst possible outcome.”

What’s the worst one? Murder?

“Not everyone’s compatible, but this goes beyond that.”

No shit! Is my boot compatible with your jugular?

It’s really tough for me to fathom how Bree’s meeting with Jude could have turned into a bad date. I set her up perfectly; all she had to do was show up and chat about her favorite topic, and she would’ve been off to the fricking races. Jude and I connected. If it went wrong, it’s not because of me.

I shut off Clifford’s message (right after I hear him say, “Ruh-Roh! Mayday! Mayday!”) and pace the length of my $4,000-a-month room. I only take six steps before I’m forced to turn around.

This is bad. This is really bad.

I scroll through my address book, and pause at Aisha’s name. I need to vent about Clifford, and who better? She’ll understand like no one else. But then I hesitate.

A) It’s Friday night; she’s probably out.

B) If I let on what a big pile of fail I am at my job, she’ll never refer me to her other company.

I scroll further and tap call.

“Starry Eyes Retirement, Ruby speaking.”

“Hi Ruby,” I say, trying to sound cheerful over the lump in my throat. “Is my grandma around? It’s Zoey.”

“It’s Friday, so she’s at karaoke bingo tonight. Want me to have her call you back? It won’t be until eleven . . .”

“No, that’s okay . . . Tell her I hope she wiped the floor with Doris.”

I hang up and stare at the walls of my apartment. My eighty-year-old grandmother has more of a social life than I do. I’m happy for her—she deserves it—but I miss her and I miss my old self, the self I used to be, when things made sense and my schedule never deviated.

Wake at six, breakfast in front of the TV, take the 10 to the 405 to the 101, work with Mary all day, take the 101 to the 405 to the 10, home, dinner in front of the TV (unless I stayed late and had dinner with Mary), asleep by eleven, repeat.