We cruise the two miles to the beach with the windows of Natalie’s Audi rolled down, letting crisp ocean air tangle our hair and salt our lips while we belt Dua Lipa with abandon. If I thought Natalie’s first house was impressive, it’s got nothing on her beach house, the redwood-and-concrete modernist wet dream from Maura’s driving tour of Seaview. And windows. So many fucking windows. Natalie lives in a magazine spread.

“You haven’t even seen the inside,” Natalie says off my slack-jawed expression. “Or the private beach.”

“Not for long, though, right?” I think about the managed-retreat proposal. I looked it up on the city website. If I understood it right, they’ll be repermitting everything so they can bulldoze and create safer, public beaches.

“We’re fine. The Coastal Commission report says our beach should see slower erosion. Plus, there will be all sorts of preexisting-structure clauses built into that thing that protect houses like ours. Private will stay private for the most part. It’s people who bought tacky McMansions next to public beaches who will get forced out.”

“This isn’t a McMansion?”

“Uh, this is a Bernardier house, not a cookie-cutter nouveau riche soulless stucco box. We only have to save enough of the beaches to make people happy. That’s politics. Give a little, but never yours, and then take what you want.”

I like Natalie, but the phrase Eat the rich rattles in my mind.

The inside is even more decadent. Vaulted cedar ceilings, herringbone hardwood floors, a sprawling open-plan layout, with living room, dining room, and great room cascading off each other back, back, back, in a straight shot to an ocean view. It’s nauseatingly amazing.

Upstairs, Natalie has the master suite with no less an awe-inspiring ocean view. This is the polar opposite of her other bedroom. No trappings of juvenile memories affixed to corkboards or first-place trophies crowding bubble-gum-pink-painted bookshelves. No pink to be found at all. In fact, apart from a string of fairy lights interspersed with clothespinned photos, there’s little personal clutter. This is a very grown-up bedroom.

I debate sitting on the expansive California king, but I worry my grubby jeans will dirty the blinding-white sheets. Instead, I follow Natalie to the walk-in closet. Which is like something out of a movie. Natalie is standing in front of a wall of rectangular cubbies, each containing a designer pair of shoes, until finally she selects a towering pair of silver-sequined stilettos.

“Sorry about the mess,” she says, plucking a single black band tee from Urban off the floor and swishing it into the laundry basket.

“Uh, no, it’s perfect.”

She dangles the shoes off the end of her fingers, narrows her eyes at me. “You wanna come over tomorrow before the dance? We can pregame, and I can do your makeup. Lend you a pair of shoes, if you want. Do you have a dress?”