“Yeah, not intentionally or anything like that. He’d been dating this girl, Bridget, for years and she broke up with him and he was devastated. She started dating this new guy and, well, the story is kind of fuzzy, but there was this party up in Benedict Canyon and Bridget was there with her new guy and Garrett showed up. There was some sort of shooting . . .” She trailed off.

“Some sort of shooting?” I prompted.

“And a gun Garrett was carrying accidentally went off. It shot the guy and the guy died.”

“Are you fucking saying you’re trying to fix me up with a murderer?”

“No, it wasn’t like that. He was never charged with murder. He actually pleaded out to second-degree manslaughter. His dad hired one of O.J.’s lawyers, and he got him the lesser charge.”

“This guy buys O.J. justice and that’s supposed to make it okay? Ina, excuse my language, but what the fuck?”

“Okay,” she said. I could tell she was a little deflated. “But knowing how you’re into murder and stuff, I thought you’d be intrigued, and it was years ago.”

“I am into murder, as you put it, but I don’t want to date murderers. Do you think I would ever try to fix you up with a murderer? Even if it would get you away from Larry?”

“Enough. I get it,” she said. “I’m going now.” I heard the phone click.

I loved how somehow in all of this I was the one out of line. I slammed the phone down.

Thankfully I had Lauren to see that night and complain to. My indignation actually helped me divert a bit of the hurt of Dave’s cheating. Fixing me up with a murderer? It just wasn’t something a friend would do. Trying to arrange a date for a good friend with a murderer was the work of a Frenemy.

I lead-footed it up Franklin to the new house Lauren had moved into a few weeks earlier. Her house was in an area just east of the Hollywood Hills in Los Feliz. Stopped at the red light at Beachwood Canyon, I tried to keep my eyes focused straight ahead. This was the light I used to take to go to Dave’s. The three of us all lived within three miles of each other. I prayed I wouldn’t have any run-ins with my ex for a long time.

Passing the Mayfair Market, I made a left and climbed into the hills. Lauren’s street was technically in “The Oaks” of Los Feliz, which borders Griffith Park. The LA Times had dubbed this area “one of the hottest nesting grounds for young Hollywood,” so now every couple with a baby seat in the back of their Volvo was driving around on weekends doing lookiloos at open houses.