Kiera drops our gifts on the kitchen table where other people seem to have done the same, then we each pour a cup of cider from a keg marked Bulmers in a bucket of ice, and I feel a little funny. In LA, before the fame, I spent most of my time auditioning and being very serious about making connections, and when I did go out, it was usually to wait in lines for Davey Wayne’s, get my purse stolen at the Abbey, or sit in the nosebleeds for a Tchaikovsky fireworks show at the Hollywood Bowl. I only really attended parties in the last few years. I’ve been to weird hangs in Echo Park that served Funyuns ironically and where the guests were basically all former or current cast members of SNL, and I’ve been to fancy parties in the Hollywood Hills where there were security men at every door and everyone in attendance looked vaguely famous, very famous, or like they wished they were famous, like my birthday party the other night.

I haven’t been to something like this, where it’s normal people having a good time, not taking themselves too seriously, in as long as I can remember.

The band is vibrant and cheerful. Half the party attendees are dancing or chatting, and the other half are watching the music with happy, deferent silence.

More than one person comes up to me and says something like Do you remember me? or Oy, tell Brad Pitt I’ll leave my husband for him!

But without a doubt, all of them are good-natured, looking to tease me. As if I had a funny dream about being a famous actress, and they want to get their digs in.

Kiera and I drink our ciders and laugh along. We watch some of the couples dancing and she tells me who is who, who used to be married to whom, who owns what local business, and who I apparently know and like best. All the while, I look around for Aimee, bothered by the fact that I haven’t found her yet.

I’m learning about how someone named Timmy Kane once took me on a date to a falconry and an owl became obsessed with his hair and he’d been so embarrassed that he never looked me in the eyes again. I feel a warm hand on my shoulder.

There’s a soothing, strange familiarity to the touch, and I already know who I’ll see when I turn around.

“Cillian,” I say.

“You’re wearing the dress,” he says as a greeting.

“I— Uh, yeah.” I look down and smooth it with my free hand. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

He nods tightly and then says, “I hear you don’t remember any of it.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Dammit, Kay,” says Kiera, cursing her mother for her gossiping ways.

“Do you think we could go talk somewhere?” Cillian asks.