She kisses me on top of the head and goes.

I almost choke. “Meggie?” I ask after her. How—

I set down my food reluctantly. Something is definitely off.

The music ends and the musicians start putting their things away. Apparently this is an indication to some of the clientele that it’s time to go, because people have started collecting their coats and taking their last sips.

She called me Meggie.

Most people don’t even know that’s my name. When I moved to LA and started auditioning, there was no question that I had to come up with a stage name. My real name is Meg Bryan. Not Meghan, not Megan, not Margaret. Meg, and then, affectionately, Meggie. And while it might be easier for casting to remember a name like Meg Bryan, since it sounds like Meg Ryan, it’s not worth the earworm similarity. Not when you have to do the, no, I said Bryan, yes, I know, it sounds like that, ha ha, yes, I know, yeah conversation over and over again.

So, I came up with Lana Lord. In retrospect, it’s a little more showbiz than I wish it were, but whatever, it has worked.

I never think about my real name unless I’m talking to one of my parents. Even Grayson calls me Lana.

Does my Wikipedia even say my real name? It must, but I don’t know for sure.

I reach for my phone, but then remember it’s plugged in. I get up and go over to the bar.

Cillian doesn’t look up when I approach.

“Can I grab my phone?”

He dries his hands on the rag from his back pocket, and then hands it to me. But it’s not my phone.

“Um … sorry, no, no it’s—it’s an iPhone, but it’s got no case on it, and … I mean I had it…”

“Meg, this is your phone. You’ve made me hold it a million times, I think I’d know.”

I freeze. Look up at him. He doesn’t seem like someone who’s trying to mess with a celebrity by saying her childhood name or withholding her things. He’s acting like someone who knows me well enough to be comfortably exasperated with me.

I think about everything that girl Kiera said. How she seemed completely at ease sitting down at my table. And then her questions about Cillian?

Wait, what the hell is going on?

Cillian loses patience holding the phone out for me and sets it down on the counter. He then walks away. With a booming voice, he tells the room at large, “Hold your whisht, get the fuck out, you’re not stayin’ all night like last night.”

I stare at the phone on the counter. It’s one generation behind mine and despite the sage-green silicone case, there’s a hairline crack down the middle of the screen.