“Yeah. I think I actually felt grateful that he didn’t make a big deal when I rejected his dinner offer. Isn’t that fucked?”

“Sounds like the patriarchy,” Laurel says, signaling the server, who comes straight over. We order a few different plates, and then the server asks us how successful we’ve been at manifesting our goals this year, and Laurel laughs in her face until she leaves, because apparently only she’s allowed to ask me that type of thing.

“So do you think you’ll do the movie?”

I look down at my nails and then back up at her. “If they offer it to me, yeah. It’s kind of earnest, but I think that could work in its favor. It’s like Game of Thrones meets Titanic, set in space.”

“They’ll probably want you to get your tits out,” Laurel says, swiveling around to check something behind her.

“Are you okay? You seem distracted.”

“I’m fine. Did you talk to the paparazzi today?”

“I thought you did that for me. Are they here?” I ask, but Laurel is still looking around. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“No, no, great. I actually forgot to call them. Maybe they just got a tip.”

“Yeah, I guess so, or maybe they followed me from the audition? They were outside waiting when I left.”

The waitress brings over our food, and a matcha smoothie for each of us.

“Do you want to order anything else? My manager said it’s on the house,” the waitress says, smiling widely, her eyes not leaving mine.

“I think we’re okay,” Laurel says at the same time I say, “Can we get some more beetroot raita?”

“Everyone’s being nice to me again,” I say, once the waitress has left.

“It’s because you don’t look like you’ve escaped from a psychiatric ward anymore.”

“It cannot just be the hair. Or one interview. This fucking city,” I say, rolling my eyes so hard I can nearly see my brain.

“It’s not just the hair, or the interview, it’s what they both represent. You’ve got your shit together. You’re not running across three lanes of traffic holding gas station pizza. In Crocs.”

“I was hoping you hadn’t noticed the Crocs. And it was actually four lanes,” I say, semi-proudly.

“I took the Crocs with me last time I was over. They’re somewhere in a dumpster in Echo Park.”

“You know, I’m going to call Crocs and ask them to sponsor me, just for you.”

“I wouldn’t,” Laurel says, chewing her way through a mouthful of charred brussels sprouts. “My contact at Lanc?me says they’re considering you for the face of their new fragrance.”

I pause, my fork suspended in the air.

“What? Do you think it’s true?” I ask, only slightly unsettled to realize how excited I am by this news, and by how thrilled Emilia will be when I tell her.

“It would make sense. You’re everywhere again. In a good way this time.”

I smile at Laurel, still pleased for reasons I don’t even understand. I feel something rippling through me—if not happiness then at least pride, or maybe gratitude. I am slowly rebuilding Grace Turner, only this time I’m doing it without Able.

“The thing I like about you is I can tell where I’m at, in terms of public perception, just by hanging out with you. You’re my one-woman litmus test. If you’re being nice to me, then I know that everyone else must like me again too,” I say, still smiling.

“The difference being, I still hang out with you even when you’re acting like Britney Spears before her meds. Don’t forget that.”

“Best friends forever,” I say faux sweetly.

“And ever.”

I take a sip of smoothie and think I can taste the deactivated charcoal.

“So Emilia thinks I need to build on the momentum of the Vanity Fair piece. She suggested a couple of awards show appearances and a late-night talk show once I’ve signed on to Anatopia. What do you think?”

“Anatopia won’t even start shooting until the middle of next year, so you need to do something before that,” Laurel says, frowning slightly. “I guess you could do a talk show. But you should check which one with Emilia, obviously. She seems to know best.”

I let the resentment hang in the air instead of trying to appease her.

“What are your plans for Christmas?” Laurel asks, but she still seems distracted.

“Honestly? I haven’t even thought about it,” I say.

“It’s six days away, Grace. You can’t just sit in that house. Jesus.”

I shrug, not wanting to tell her I don’t have many other options right now.

“Look, you can come over to my place if you need somewhere to go,” Laurel says hesitantly, in a way that makes me think she might be regretting the offer already.

I smile at her anyway. “Thank you.”

“So, how are you feeling at the moment? Like really?” Laurel asks after another pause, but I can tell she’s still in a weird mood. I consider adjusting her energy in the way she would if this was the other way around.

“I actually feel okay. Maybe even more in control, I don’t know,” I say, smiling over Laurel’s head at the photographers crowding around the entrance to the restaurant. “And it’s not my fucking hair.”

“Grace—”

“I know what you’re going to say—one day at a time, blah, blah, but I haven’t even thought about having a drink or doing any drugs in weeks. To be honest, I’m sick of everyone treating me like I’m damaged,” I say, drinking some of my green smoothie and frowning, but not in the way that gives me the “eleven” lines between my eyebrows.

“I think that’s great, and I’m so happy you’re feel—”

“I don’t even necessarily just have to stick to acting, if that’s what you’re worried about. What are those people called that do a bit of everything? Maybe I’ll write a book on mindfulness or something,” I say, grinning as I swirl my straw around in my glass. “Or a vegan cookbook. I really should have kept it up, but did I tell you what my dad made me the first night I was home?”

“The salad with cheese and bacon bits,” Laurel says, and I think for a second that she’s bored or maybe just miserable.

“And ranch dressing! I couldn’t—”

“Grace,” Laurel interrupts at this point, basically shouting. I look at her, surprised.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve been trying to tell you that I have to go for fucking ages,” Laurel says, sounding sheepish. “I didn’t tell Lana I was with you, and I’m kind of freaking out that she’s going to see that I’m with you before I have a chance to explain, because of all these fucking cameras. You’re not her favorite person after our night in Coyote Sumac. I hadn’t done coke in six months until I saw you.”

“I’m sorry, who?” I ask, not understanding.

“Lana. My partner.”

I can feel my shock register on my face. I don’t even try to keep my features neutral for the photographers this time. “Your what now?”

“We’ve been together two years, Grace. You’ve met her. What the fuck.”

“I didn’t even know you were gay,” I say, and then there’s a moment where I think Laurel might smash a plate of blackened eggplant over my head, but instead she starts to laugh, her eyes filling with glossy tears as she reaches across the table to take my hand.

“Never change, Grace,” she says, and even though I think I can hear genuine affection in her voice, I’m still embarrassed.

“I’m the pits,” I say, and Laurel nods.

“Can I meet her?” I ask. “Again, I mean?”

“Sure. But not right now. Like I said, she hates you.”

I look down at our setup, the table for two filled with sharing plates piled with vegan food, and matching matcha smoothies, surrounded by photographers calling out my name.

“What the fuck are you still doing here then?” I ask, smiling and putting my sunglasses over my eyes. “Go home.”

* * *

? ? ?

I climb into my car, pulling my baseball cap over my head once I’m inside. One of the photographers taps on my window, and I open it two inches so that I can hear what he’s saying. He is older than the rest and is smartly dressed in a sky-blue linen shirt. He drops something through the window that lands on my passenger seat. It’s a business card. I turn it over in my hand. Mario Gomez—Professional Photographer.

“Call or text me whenever you need me, okay? I’ll be there,” he says through the window as I reverse away from him.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR