IT DOESN’T LOOK huge from the outside, but this place is amazing. There are probably fifty people here, enough to make it feel like a big party, but few enough that I feel selected. I spot Pam talking to a salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman. I think I see Reed outside with Jack and some of the rest of the cast. The other guests are adults, full-blown adults. Dancing, laughing, partying adults. I feel this wave of triumph over Alex, who even with Stanford and his family’s connections would never get invited to a party like this. At least not as a fellow artist. He thought I’d never make it. He felt sorry for me when he broke up with me, again when I called him, and the worst was seeing him feel sorry for me in Venice. I take a Polaroid and stick it in my coat pocket. Then I take another picture with my phone and post it to Instagram: #HollywoodHillsParty #TheGoodLife. And then I just can’t resist…#Blessed.

In your FACE, Brooke and Alex! Ha!

Brazilian music plays. At first I think it’s live, but then I see a DJ spinning out by the infinity pool.

The style of the house is modern with bohemian touches. There are real works of art on the wall and careful-yet-casual arrangements of black-and-white photographs. There are also movie posters and theater posters, all framed. There’s a grand piano. There’s an open glass door that leads to the pool. There’s a fireplace. I feel like I’ve landed in a magazine. I take in the views of the blinking city.

“Pick your jaw up off the floor,” Marisol whispers.

“I’m totally screwed,” I say, and shake my head.

“Help me follow your logic,” says Raj, who’s stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Well, I can never be something normal now.”

“Who said anything about being normal?” Marisol asks.

“And I can’t settle down someplace like Portland, Oregon, and, like, work for an environmental nonprofit.”

“Why?” asks Raj.

“And who knew you had these secret plans?” says Marisol.

“Because this is what I want. And now I have proof that it’s possible. All you need to do is be a successful actor.”

“Or director,” Marisol says, nodding at a guy with black glasses and red hair.

“Malcolm Barclay,” Raj says, and pales. “I need a drink.”

I spot one of the cast members from Saturday Night Live laughing as he sips a glass of wine. “Shut the fuck up,” he’s saying. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

“Join us,” a barefoot Kingman says to me as he gestures to the party.

“Thanks for having us.” I hand him the flowers and introduce Raj and Marisol. “No one else brought flowers, did they?” I feel suddenly embarrassed.

“No one else has such good manners,” Amelia Kirk says in her trademark Southern accent. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She’s so tiny. There’s no way that she’s taller than me. She must weigh only enough to survive, and yet she emanates health, her skin glowing as if she’s been brushed with starlight.

“Follow me to the kitchen and we’ll put these in water and get you a little something to wet your whistle. I’m so glad you could join us. I’m Amelia, by the way.”

“I know,” I say as Raj, Marisol, and I follow Amelia and Kingman to a modern kitchen.

“Well, I know who you are, too,” she says. “And you were dynamite tonight. You have a luminous future.”

“I do?”

“I think so,” she says.

“Oh, thank you,” I say, my hand to my chest. “Thank you.”

“What can I get you to drink?” she asks as she unwraps the flowers and quickly arranges them in a vase. All three of us are silent. “How about some red wine?” She wipes her delicate hand on her jeans.

“That would be lovely,” I say.

Someone calls her name from the other room and she sighs. “I’m being summoned.” She hands me a bottle of wine and points to a cabinet on her way out. “The glasses are in there.”

I look up at Kingman as if to confirm that a real movie star, one of the biggest of our time, told me that I was luminous.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, and follows her out.

“Luminous!” Marisol says. “She thinks you’re luminous.” Marisol and I jump up and down in a victory dance. Raj points to a Post-it on the fridge on which is scribbled Malcolm and a phone number. “Um, this is Malcolm Barclay’s number, right here on the fridge, in the same spot where I have my Hollywood Pizza magnet.”

Oh my God! I silently exclaim. As Marisol and I do another victory dance, Raj uncorks a bottle and pours us each a generous glass of wine. We raise our glasses in a giddy toast.

“She’s got to be over forty. How does she look so good?” I ask.

“If we had a nutritionist, a trainer, a makeup artist, and a personal shopper, we’d look that good at forty-five, too. Come on. Let’s find a bathroom. I’m going to do our makeup,” Marisol says.

Raj looks at us, panicked. “What do I do?”

“Mingle,” I say.

“But I have social anxiety.”

“Raj, you’re a bartender,” Marisol says, with one hand on her skinny hip.

“I hide behind the bar,” he says. “Sometimes literally.”

“You do not,” I say, and without thinking, I give his hand a squeeze. I look around for Reed, but I don’t see him anywhere.

Once in the bathroom, Marisol pulls out her makeup bag. “I’ve got to teach you how to do this yourself. I’m really not helping you. I need to teach you how to fish instead of just handing you the sea bass.” I laugh as she opens her lip gloss palette.

Two hours later, the crowd has thinned and Raj is playing Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll” on the piano. The Saturday Night Live star, now totally wasted, is singing along. “Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh!” He bellows as Raj pounds the opening chords. I see Amelia sitting on the sofa, talking to a woman with almond-shaped eyes, narrowed in concentration. I pull up a cowhide-covered stool. I smile as they continue to talk about some island I’ve never heard of. I try to find a place to chime in, but it doesn’t feel natural, so I wait, smiling, for them to change the subject. The woman with the almond-shaped eyes excuses herself. For a second, Amelia’s face goes blank, so blank that I wonder if she’s fallen asleep with her eyes open. Maybe the lighting isn’t as good in this corner of the house, or maybe her makeup has faded, but for the first time she looks her age. Amelia leans forward on the sofa as if to stand. I sense that the party is winding down; this might be my last chance to talk to her.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi, there,” she says, snapping to life.

“So you know how you said that you liked my work?” I ask. She nods slowly with wide eyes. “That means a lot to me, obviously, coming from you, and I wanted to say thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“The thing is—and I have no idea what your experience was like as a younger actress—I mean, I know you know this. But if I want to, you know, um, be seen, well, it seems that what I really need is an agent.”

“It’s true,” she says. “And you’ll find one. My momma used to tell me that the cream rises to the top.” She smiles a closed-lip smile. She stands; so do I. I think about one of Suzi Simpson’s anecdotes. She approached a casting director in a supermarket and it led to her first gig. “Take a risk, kiddos,” Suzi wrote at the conclusion of the chapter. “C’mon, what do you have to lose?”

“So. Is there any way that you could help me?” I ask.

“Hmm?”

“Well, since you said I have a bright, um, luminous future, I’m just wondering, do you think you could tell your agent about me?”

The last vestige of her smile vanishes. “My agent has been my agent for seventeen years. He only works with established artists.”

“Of course.” Air seems to be pooling at the bottom of my lungs. “I didn’t know if maybe you knew someone. Or he knew someone, or he knew someone who knew someone, or maybe a casting director you knew wouldn’t mind setting up a general. I have this web series on YouTube. It’s called Talk to Me. And I think—”

“I’m going to stop you,” she says, placing a moisturized hand on my elbow.

“Oh.”

“You should know that this is not really something one asks at a private party. It’s very awkward. This is my home. Okay?”

“I didn’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m sorry.” I open my mouth, wondering how I can possibly turn this horrible moment around. There has to be a way. But nothing comes to mind. My cheeks are so hot I feel like I must have a fever of at least 103 degrees. I look at the floor and she slips away.

I walk though the party on gelatin legs, toward the backyard, wondering how quickly I can get out of here. Kingman’s earlier request that I be cool now seems like an ominous warning. As I catch my breath in the hallway, I’m met with a portrait of Amelia taken by Annie Leibovitz. She’s in a white gown, seated on a horse, her eyes fixed on something distant and miraculous.

I slide the glass doors open and sit by the pool on a lounge chair. There are a few other people out here, smoking pot by the hot tub, but I don’t recognize them.

“Hey, you okay?” a voice asks. I turn around to see Reed, practically glowing in the moonlight.

“Yeah,” I say, too embarrassed to tell him what just happened. “Just getting some fresh air. You were incredible tonight, by the way.”

“You don’t think I was too restrained?” he asks.

“No, not at all,” I say.

“Even in the second scene, the one with Dylan?” He sits next to me. “I feel like I was a little off.”

“Not at all,” I say again. I can tell that it’s all about him, and that’s fine with me. It’s a relief actually. “I think it was your best scene.”

“Really?” he asks, and his pinky finger grazes mine.

“Really,” I say, meeting his gaze. Even his jaw is muscular. Even his mouth is hot.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Marisol: Where are you? Raj and I think we should leave on a high note.

I wish I’d gotten this text before my gaffe with Amelia.

“Who’s that?” Reed asks.

“My friends want to leave on a high note,” I tell him.

Reed inches closer to me so that our legs are touching. “I don’t think you’ve hit your high note yet.”

“No?” I ask. My heart pounds. Maybe someone like Reed is just what I need. Someone who is so hot that his touch can burn away my memories of Alex. Someone whose feelings are hard to find, even if his intentions are clear. Someone to help me forget this night.

“Not even close,” he says.

Me: I’m staying. See you guys tomorrow.

Marisol: Have fun!

Me: I think I’m going to.