I blindfold her to see if she can watch it without hearing it or seeing it and I kiss her all over her body, underneath her knees, her elbows, her inner thighs. I do not eat her out. I make her come without touching her vagina. She says that’s a first.

“Does this place have a pool?” I ask.

It does and Mr. Mooney was wrong; the pool is not cold and dirty. The pool is a giant blue oval, as welcoming as Love’s vagina. My phone falls inside of it and Love swan dives to the bottom and emerges with it in hand. Her butler puts it in rice. I’m tempted to ask him to throw it away. Love says my broken phone is a sign that I’m supposed to relax. And maybe I am because it’s hard to care about my life before Love.

This is why people go west, smashing rocks and hoping to spot something shimmering in the creek. Dip a pan into the rocky water and lift it and strain it and then feel solid gold in the palm of your hand. Everything I did was worth it because it led me straight into Love’s arms.

20

I can’t decide what I like more, this bed or these sheets or this view or the balcony or the jam and toast that were waiting here when I woke up. Chateau is Adult Disney World, the kind of place where they’re one step ahead of you. I didn’t have to ask for my phone. It was here when I woke up, in a little basket by the bread, by the silver coffee pot, so much more elegant than Keurig. Love’s still sleeping and I put on a robe and pour my coffee and spread jam on my soft, blond bread and walk out to the balcony.

I am awkward at first, not used to having toast and a balcony and a robe. I’ll have to look in the mirror after I finish my breakfast because I’m curious to see if I look different, if all this luxury closed my pores. Maybe I don’t even need to buy Henderson’s skin care products. I’m happy and they could evict us right now and I wouldn’t care as long as they let me take that dirty little minx in the bed. Even the no blowjob bit; I’m a man. It’s good to have a goal.

I lean on the balcony rail and turn on my phone. When it finally boots up, it proceeds to buzz like it’s having a heart attack from trying to keep up with all these texts from Delilah.

Hey! What do you think about tomorrow?

My mom says hi LOL

My mom loves Dan Tana. Seems good, right?

Hey

Joe?

Asdjkasdkasdsda

Hey are you ok? Harvey says you never came home. Calling hospitals.

My mom is only here til Monday . . . this is fucked.

Going to Birds?

Going to Birds. See you there?

Asdbsjkdaskd yes?

Knock knock

La Poubelle?

At La Pou!

FUCK OFF

Hey Joe are you ok? Look I know I shouldn’t have asked you to meet my mother but it’s not what you think. She’s cool. I didn’t mean it in a meet the parents kind of way. So you don’t have to disappear on me.

There’s a picture of Delilah’s tits, real, pert. There’s another text:

If you’re not dead, I’m never speaking to you again. I don’t need this. I have a lot of great things in my life and a lot reasons to be happy and I don’t need you blowing me off like this. So do me a favor and just leave me alone. Okay? Okay.

And now it’s Calvin’s turn. He wrote to me, just eighteen minutes ago: Dude. Hot chick in store. She’s got a Portnoy’s Complaint. Book not screenplay.

I thought I was done, that it was over, but my beating heart and shaking hands tell me it’s not. Amy. Finally. I write back: Hold her. On my way.

Calvin writes back: How?

He wants to be a writer but he can’t come up with a fucking plan to make a girl wait twenty minutes? I send my orders: Tell her that your supervisor is in yoga and you have to wait for him to get out so you can get his approval.

Calvin writes back: Cool.

He should have said smart and with shaking hands, I scribble a note for snoring Love—Gotta run, be back soon—and I nearly fall over trying to get out of the fucking robe and into my clothes. I shut the door and step into the hallway, into reality—I don’t have a key, this isn’t my suite—and I kick a discarded room service tray. Lazy, unhungry fucks tossing out lukewarm, high-end pancakes and I don’t belong here, I had a purpose and a goal and I need closure and FUCK.

I hail a cab on Sunset. The world is uglier than it was before and I feel hungover even though I wasn’t drunk. Calvin texts: She asked what kind of yoga. I said hatha. FYI.

I write back: I’m close.

And I am. This is it. I am queasy and the cab is fast and we are here. Across the street, I see her in the shop flirting with Calvin. Cunt. The crosswalk is flashing red but fuck it. This is Fast Five and I have my target in the crosshairs. I will risk another jaywalking ticket. I get out of the cab, I run. I make it to the double lines before the driver wails on his horn.

“You need to pay me!” he screams.

I forget to pay because I’m so used to Uber and technology is killing our instincts. I look into the shop. Amy and Calvin must have heard the horn because they look up, and Amy’s eyes widen. The driver wails on the horn again and now the light is green and more people are honking. Range Rovers want me out of the fucking way and a woman in a Prius enjoys laying on her horn, taking out all that rejection rage on me. Even if I did run out on this cabbie, which I can’t—the mug of piss—I would miss Amy. She’s out the door and she’s on foot. She’s around the corner, into a waiting car, a passenger, not a driver, and she’s gone.

I don’t get hit by a car but if I did I don’t think it would matter. My nerves are shot. I’ve gone from the high of Love to the adrenaline of Amy to the crash, to forking wrinkled tens out of my wallet to pay this cabbie as he bitches about you kids and your Ubers and to know that I was so close. All the nights I spent in this Village waiting. That bitch knew. She had to have known. The cabbie goes, disgusted, as if his shitty day compares to mine.

I walk east to the corner of Franklin and Bronson and wait for the crosswalk to turn white. I plod across the street and into the bookshop and Calvin looks like a different person. He shaved. His hair is short. He’s wearing a #IWasThere T-shirt.

“Dude,” he says. “I did everything I could, but she had to jam. She said she’ll be back.”

I don’t bother telling him how wrong he is. I just slump into a chair behind the counter.

“So where’ve you been?” he asks.

“I was in West Hollywood,” I explain, and I can’t believe I missed her.

“Did you have a meeting?” he asks, as if that would matter, as if I didn’t move here to kill Amy, to find Amy. I tear into one of Calvin’s thinkThin bars.

“Yeah,” I say, deflated.

“A two-day meeting?” he asks, all hopped up now, as if this might mean he gets to ride along. “Delilah said you haven’t been around.”

Delilah and I sigh. “Yeah,” I say. “A friend in town, a meeting, no big deal.”

Calvin picks up his iPad. “She was filthy hot,” he says. “The Amy chick.”

“Yeah,” I say, but Love is prettier and softer and Amy has fucked me over again. I groan. Love does not know my phone number and never seeing her again is possible. I ran out on her and this is what Amy did to me and Love might think I used her for her body and her bed and her truffle fries. Life is better when it’s simpler. If I could just kill Amy, I wouldn’t have to worry about her. She wouldn’t get in the way of things. If Amy were dead, I would know Love’s phone number.

Calvin rubs his forefinger and pointer finger on his iPad, the way he always does when he sees a hot girl on Tinder. He smiles. “You can almost see her nips,” he says. “Wanna see?”