When we walk back onto the path, the goat is staring at me. I nod at it and I’m not surprised when it politely nods back. I stifle a giggle as I follow Emilia through to the playhouse, an outdoor amphitheater with stone tiers around the stage and fairy lights laced around each level.

“The kids take most of their classes outside in the tree house. They have a goat-milking rotation,” Emilia informs me as we climb the steps, both of us struggling to keep a straight face. We choose seats near the back, and I can feel the effect of the weed even more now that I’ve stopped moving, a strange, warm feeling of contentedness slipping over me despite myself. I’m just wondering why I never really got into weed when, with the sun still high in the sky, the golden fairy lights flick on and I have to close my eyes because it all becomes too much of a moment.

The play starts, and I understand what Emilia meant. The story is hard to keep up with, an elaborate mix of Hanukkah, Christmas and Diwali celebrations, but when I recognize Silver and Ophelia shuffling onstage dressed as two candles in a human menorah, I find that I’m smiling, both corners of my mouth stretching even wider when Silver breaks character to wave at us.

For the nativity section, instead of frankincense, gold and myrrh, Jesus is given the gifts of acceptance, equality and kindness, as personified by three small children inexplicably dressed as two mermaids and a lobster. “Oh, sweet Jesus, spare us,” Emilia murmurs under her breath when the older kids, playing the shepherds, start a debate about the immaculate conception, which spitballs into a rap song about women’s reproductive rights over the years. When a boy comes out proudly dressed as a Roe v. Wade newspaper sandwich board, I can feel Emilia finally lose it next to me. She starts to laugh, and, when she lets out a loud snort, I can’t stop myself from grinning too. It could be the weed, but suddenly everything seems so insanely, improbably funny, and we’re both shaking with laughter. People eye us with a mixture of distaste and envy, and I feel like one of the lucky ones for a moment. A woman on the tier below us turns around to shush us, looking horrified. Her face changes instantly when she recognizes me, which only makes us laugh more. It’s the most I’ve laughed in a long time.

* * *

? ? ?

On the car journey home, I feel weightless, like I did in the swimming pool my first morning back at the glass house. Silver and Ophelia are staying with friends, so it’s just the two of us, and when Emilia turns the radio up loud for a Beach Boys song it feels as if I’m hearing music for the very first time, the harmonies crisp and clear, suspended in the air around us.

I sneak a peek at Emilia, stupidly grateful for something I can’t name. My mood isn’t even dampened when Esme rings and I have to fumble to send the call to voicemail before Emilia sees. I tell myself that I’m protecting my sister, but I know I’m just being selfish because I would never be able to answer a single question about Esme without revealing too much of myself.

“I actually need to talk to you about something,” Emilia says when we’re nearly back at Coyote Sumac. She looks sheepish, and a flurry of apprehension steals a piece of my high.

“I hope you don’t think I’ve been meddling, but you seemed so excited the other day about the John Hamilton project, and I couldn’t resist having a little word with him about it. I don’t know if you know, but he’s a dear friend of the family. He’s actually Silver’s godfather,” Emilia says, grinning like a fool. “And he said that he wants to meet with you. Soon. Do you hate me?”

“No,” I say, surprised that I somehow forgot that everyone is a dear friend of anyone in LA. “But I heard they’d already cast the role he wanted me for.”

Emilia frowns slightly. “Oh, you know this kind of thing is always changing.”

“He figured I was a liability and pulled out,” I say, and Emilia flinches before smiling ruefully.

“I think he was just worried, but I’ve spoken to him and he’s excited to meet you. He’s going to call Nathan to arrange it all.”

“Thanks, Emilia,” I say, and Emilia waves her hand dismissively, causing the car to swerve slightly.

“I did next to nothing, trust me,” Emilia says. “Although once it’s announced, we should get you on a late-night talk show, or maybe Ellen? We need to truly mark your return somehow.”

“Why are you doing all this?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Emilia pulls up outside my house and turns the engine off, before turning to study me.

“If it’s because you still feel guilty about not looking after me when I was younger, then it’s fine. You had the twins, you were busy, the last thing you needed was another charge. I get it.”

Emilia shakes her head.

“I’m doing this because we’re friends, Grace, like you told Camila the other day,” she says. “And friends help each other out.”

I pause, my hand on the car door handle.

“Thank you,” I say, turning away before Emilia can notice the stricken look on my face.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

You look like a deranged elderly runaway,” Esme observes, frowning at me in the mirror, and I’m already regretting her presence.

“Or an extra from Les Misérables,” Blake offers from behind her impossibly small sunglasses. I glare at them both as I pull off the dress, even though they’re not wrong—the dress is the color of wet sand with elbow-length sleeves and a ragged hem. I’m not sure it’s exactly what Laurel had in mind when she scheduled the fitting for me.

“I didn’t ask you here for your styling advice. I’m already paying someone way too much for that,” I say at the exact moment my stylist, Xtina, walks back in from the bathroom. Esme snorts and I glare at her.

“Actually, I didn’t even ask you here. Why are you two here again?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

“Therapy was canceled,” Blake says. “Some sort of celebrity hypno-birthing emergency.”

“How much longer do you have to be in therapy for?” I ask, turning around to look at her.

“I guess until I’m cured!” Blake says, doing jazz hands for a second before dropping them back down to her lap. “Or at least until I leave for college.”

Esme shakes her head sympathetically. “You have to meet Blake’s mother to understand. Talk about deranged.”

“Have you met ours?” I mutter. “I’m not even sure she’s aware that therapy exists.”

“Why do you think we’re such good friends?” Blake asks, and Esme shoots her a look in the mirror, but I think it’s half-hearted and only because she would be betraying our mother if she didn’t.

“Are you coming home next week?” Esme asks me, and I turn to face her, confused. “For Christmas, Grace.”

Shit. I turn back around and pretend to assess my reflection in the mirror again. It’s always been easier to lie to myself than to my sister, and I still feel guilty about blowing her off on the weekend.

“I’m figuring it out.”

Xtina hands me a black dress, and I unenthusiastically put it on, even though I can already see that it will wash me out. Xtina is a stylist based in New York, and every year leading up to awards season she takes over a suite in the Four Seasons to clothe her clients in beautiful, overpriced dresses and jewelry loaned to her by different designers. The IFA dress code is different from the Oscars in that you don’t officially have to wear black tie, but I’ve been warned that I need to play it safe, as the fashion blogs will already be gearing up to put me on their worst-dressed lists.

“That interview you did was pretty sick,” Blake says, shifting positions in her chair.

“Did you really like it?” I ask, ever the needy actress. I even turn around to study her face to see if she’s telling the truth. The Vanity Fair interview was published online yesterday morning, and it appears that I hit the perfect note of contriteness, spiritualism and strength to satisfy the baying masses. Laurel told me she had already fielded dozens of requests for more interviews or TV appearances off the back of it. “The tide is turning!” she’d added, just before we hung up. After we spoke, I reread the interview alone in my house with a growing sense of dread: Camila had included everything except for my quote on Able, and the omission felt ominous rather than generous—as if she could be saving it for a different story.

“Yeah. I also heard my mom and her friends talking about it. They kept saying how brave you were to talk about your issues like that. They’re also really hoping you get back with Dylan.”

I nod slowly, turning to Esme. “Did our mom read it?”

“If she did, she didn’t mention it to me.”

“Cool,” I say, not wanting to ask outright what Esme thought of it, even though I’m sure she would have read it. I unzip the ugly black dress and pull it over my head, instinctively assessing my half-naked body in the mirror as I wait to be handed something else to try. When I look up, Esme is watching me over her phone.