I’M COUNTING MY TIPS at the counter—over two hundred and fifty bucks, not bad for brunch—when my phone buzzes with a text. It’s a group text from Kingman. He’s testing out some funky old plays tonight, public domain stuff, to see if any of them would be suitable for productions this spring. He’s looking for actors to come and do read-throughs. No pay, of course, but he’s going to bring some pizza and beer. Casting is not in any way guaranteed, he writes, but the people who show up get first crack at the material. I feel a buzzing in my chest at the thought of being back at Company One. It might not pay the rent, but it’s real acting in a legit theater with like-minded people.

Peanut emerges from the kitchen with a salmon salad and places it in front of me.

“For me?” I ask. It’s the priciest thing on our menu.

“Kitchen mistake.” He winks and puts some change in a jukebox.

“Thanks,” I say. Moments later, a Frank Sinatra standard fills the empty restaurant. Peanut sings along. To my surprise, he has a pretty voice.

“You sound good, Peanut,” I say.

“I have dreams, too, you know,” he says, and he smiles as he returns to the kitchen.

“I think you can make it,” I call after him.

As I pour myself a Coke to go with my salad, I decide that Company One is like my college. Kingman is just as respected and knowledgeable as anyone teaching at Juilliard, I’m sure. But I didn’t really get to learn from him the way that the rest of the cast did because I was a late addition. If I got in at the beginning of the process, I bet I’d grow a lot as an actress. I’m totally embarrassed about not having written that letter, but there are worse things in life than being embarrassed. Nothing could have been more humiliating than the Amelia gaffe, and that actually led to something good—or almost good. Which reminds me that I need to send her something for hooking me up with Hal.

Flowers, I decide as I take a bite of the finest food Rocky’s Café has to offer, and the crooning voice of Frank Sinatra puts me in a sentimental mood. Flowers are classic.

When I show up at Company One that night, most of the old cast is there along with a handful of other people I don’t recognize but who I gather are from previous shows. Tamera and Reed are holding hands.

“What’s up, bud?” Reed asks me.

“Not much, chief,” I say. “What’s up with you?”

He smiles bashfully and Tamera leans into him. They have that look of love about them. That glow. I guess Tamera is the one to end his player ways. I’ll never know why, and he probably won’t either. Love is weird like that. Kingman gestures for us to sit around the table, which is set up in the middle of the stage.

“Okay,” he says. “So tonight we’ll be reading a play from the nineteenth century called Billy the Kid. This is some weird shit. I think we could have some fun with it. Or maybe it’ll be a total dud. Who the fuck knows? Let’s read it and see what happens. Who’d like to read for Billy, iconic bad boy of the West?”

Reed, the quintessential handsome cowboy, raises his hand. Kingman is about to toss him a script when I shoot my hand in the air.

“I’d like to try,” I say. Kingman raises his eyebrows. He smiles and hands the script to me instead. “Go for it.”

“I will,” I say, and smile back.

Despite Marisol’s request, I’m not quite ready to return to the Chateau. After the Company One meeting, which was some of the most fun I’ve had since I’ve moved to LA, I go back to Vivian’s condo and spend another quiet night in her guest room. After she leaves for work, I decide to call Alex. Not because I want him back, but because I have something to say to him, regardless of how he feels about it. After I have a cup of coffee, I dial his number. This time I’m not sweating or panicking. I have no expectations.

He answers right away.

“Hey, Becca,” Alex says. “What’s up? Did you get the package?”

“Yes,” I say. “Thanks for sending those. And also, Alex, I just want to tell you something.” I’m about to tell him how much he hurt me, but I stop myself. I know he knows this all too well. “I wish you’d found a kinder way of treating me.”

“I just felt like you wanted something I couldn’t give,” he says.

“Come on, Alex,” I say. “You’re better than that.”

He’s quiet for a moment. I can hear in this pause that he knows I’ve nailed him. Alex, smartest boy in our class, wordsmith extraordinaire, is speechless. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” I say. And we both sigh.

“So, what are you thinking for next year?” he asks.

“I’m not totally sure,” I say. “I’m working on it.”

“I just want to put it out there that I think you’re too smart to be an actress. And you’re definitely way too smart for LA.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly, because I know he means this as some kind of compliment. People don’t respect actors unless they’re famous. Until then, we’re just wasting our time. People think that we’re selfish, reality-avoiding, self-obsessed, vain, insecure, immature dreamers. It’s probably true for some of the actors out there, but I don’t agree with this generalization at all. It’s certainly not true for me or Marisol. As for LA, there’s nothing about this place that’s stupid. It’s complex and contradictory and gorgeous and smoggy and too hot. But it’s not stupid. “But I don’t agree with you.”

“That’s fair,” he says. “You always did have your own opinions.”

Duh, I think.

“I got a new car,” he says. “One I can take to go to Tahoe in the winter.”

“That’s great,” I say, realizing with a little kick of elation that I don’t care. “I hope you take some awesome trips in it.”

After I hang up, I’m ready to go back to the Chateau. Maybe not for good, but for a little while, or at least until I figure out what I’m doing next. I pack my suitcase and take an Uber back to Hollywood. Marisol is waiting for me in her kimono.

“This came for you this morning,” she says, and hands me an envelope from Raj. “Open it.”

I do, and inside is the ticket to the banquet and a note.

I know you’re mad, but I really want you to be with me tonight. Please come. You’re so much a part of this, it won’t feel right to not have you beside me. I love you. Raj.

“That is so sweet I think I’m going to puke,” Marisol says.

“Marisol!” I say. “That’s private.”

“Shut up. You have to go.”

“I don’t know if I can face him after my freak-out.”

“He told you he loves you, fool!”

I can’t suppress my smile.

“But what if Sierra is there, too? What if I see her and panic?”

“First of all, I really doubt she’s going. And secondly, do you really think that’s going to happen? Do you really think you have so little control over yourself that you’re going to spaz at a formal banquet at California Film School?”

“I honestly don’t know,” I say. “I scared the shit out of myself the other day.”

“You need to get your head on right.” She takes another look at the ticket. “Okay, this thing starts in two hours. I’m sending you for a walk around the block to clear your mind. When you come back I’m going to have an outfit laid out for you.”

“If Sierra goes, she’s probably going to look gorgeous,” I say.

“Go for your walk and get perspective,” Marisol says.

“I, like, invented Olivia,” I say, as she’s pushing me out the door.

“You’re taking this whole situation the wrong way. Get out there and take some deep breaths.”

I head out of the Chateau for a walk around the block. I blink against the bright light, wishing I’d brought sunglasses. It hurts to lift my gaze above the sidewalk. I walk past the house with the sofa on the front porch that Marisol and I think is a halfway house. I continue beyond the apartment complex with a dark red rock garden that looks like it’s from Mars. I pass the house with the overgrown lawn, odd assortment of potted cacti, and the lemon tree. I pick up a fallen lemon that’s escaped the chain-link fence. It’s nestled under a tree whose roots are bursting through the cement and climbing with bougainvillea vines, the papery hot-pink leaves rustling in the breeze. It’s hard to believe it’s January. I’m about to turn onto Franklin, when who do I see running right toward me in his skimpy workout gear, dripping with sweat, a stone-cold look of determination in his eyes? Oh Fucky.

I can’t, I think. I can’t handle seeing him right now. I do an about-face, but before I can turn all the way around, he taps me on the shoulder. I can smell his sweat and feel the heat radiating off of his body.

“Hi,” I say.

“Long time no see,” he says, taking a microfiber towel from the waist of his shorts and wiping off his face. “So, I need to ask. Is that guy I’ve seen you driving around with your boyfriend?”

“Yes,” I say without even thinking about it.

“Damn,” he says. “You’re so cute. I could just…” He sucks air through his teeth.

“Thank you, but please don’t elaborate.”

“You can probably tell that I’m always trying to improve myself.”

“I can see that,” I say.

“So I’d just like to know, why did you choose him over me?” he asks. As ridiculous as he is, there’s sadness in his eyes that I can’t ignore.

“It’s hard to say,” I say. As I try to formulate an answer, I think of Alex. Yes, he could’ve been kinder to me, without a doubt. He could’ve treated me in a way that acknowledged everything we shared. But ultimately if he didn’t love me anymore, there’s not much he could do about it. He could’ve done better—a lot better—but he wasn’t trying to be mean. Love can’t be manufactured just because someone else wants it from you. “I guess we can’t really explain our feelings, right?”

“I have no regrets,” he says, staring into the distance. “The greatest risk is the one not taken.”

“I believe that,” I say.

“Do you? I have that quote in a very tasteful frame in my apartment, which you would know if you’d even given me a chance,” he says.

“It’s good advice,” I say.

“And especially true when it comes to love. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

“A broken heart, I guess,” I say, thinking to myself, I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with Oh Fucky, whose shorts are way too tight, and who I swear is standing in such a way that he wants me to check him out.

“Eh, there are worse things,” he says. “Besides, in order for the heart to really open, it needs to break at least a little.”

“Wow,” I say, stunned by this unexpected wisdom.

“Booyah!” he shouts, making me jump a bit. “You didn’t know I was so deep, did you? Hey, are you going to use that lemon?”

“Take it,” I say, and hand it to him.

“Did you know a lemon has more antioxidants than a pomegranate?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“See how much you could’ve learned from me,” he says.

“My loss,” I say.

“True dat. Now, if you’ll step out of the way, I’m going to bring it home hard, like I always do, baby.”

I step aside. With the lemon in one hand, he sprints toward the Chateau like a man on fire.