“Um.” I furrow my brow in thought, genuinely having to hunt for the answer. “Look, the thing is, I don’t want to sound like a nihilist. Like, ‘Oh, in any given world I’m miserable.’”

“You’re not miserable,” he says. “You’re hunting for something.”

No one says things like this to me in my real life, but I have the feeling that it’s because I’m not asking. When you’re a celebrity, people rarely want to tell you no. How do you think Michael Jackson went as far as he did with plastic surgery? How did Kim Kardashian get away with wearing that Marilyn Monroe dress? Who lets Johnny Depp out of the house looking like he does? Or, honestly, who lets him out of the house period?

He used to be so hot.

Not the point.

The point is that people stopped telling me no as soon as I became a household name. The glam squad who comes over to my house does nothing but gas me up, telling me how gorgeous and perfect I am. My personal assistant, Lisa Michele, might not listen to me all that well, but it’s not because she’s honest and real. She’s just kind of an asshole. As for my parents, I mean, they love me. And they’re never getting the full story.

And when I first moved to LA, no one knew the real me enough to keep me in check with myself.

In this world, this other version of me is lost. But it doesn’t sound like she’s taking much input either. It’s easy for me to see that she has a massive wall up.

I let that sink in for a few seconds and then say, “It’s probably the same in my life. I guess I never really thought about it. I was so driven to claim my success, and I got it. And it’s not like I was moping around like a poor little rich girl. I get that it’s good! I like good champagne. I get massages all the time. I’ve met Cary Grant’s daughter. Gwyneth Paltrow sent me a vagina candle once.”

“Never thought I’d hear Cary Grant and vagina candle in such close proximity.”

“That’s Hollywood, baby.”

He laughs, and I admire his smile yet again. Getting back on track, I say, “What I’m trying to say is that I have a good life. But I’m not happy. And I think I’m scared.”

“What of?”

I consider, staring at the red-hot wood in the fireplace and letting my thumb rub against the cold of the glass. I want to tell him everything, to have no secrets from him. But I don’t. I tell him some of it.