Parallel

times, I’m not prepared for the reflection that greets me in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The “dress” is longer than I remembered, and it fits me in all the right places. Dressed like this, with my dark waves blown straight and makeup still camera-ready, I barely recognize myself. For the first time since I arrived in L.A., I look like someone who belongs. Only my eyes—round and slightly panicked—give me away.
    “You almost ready?” Bret calls from the other side of the door. “We’re late.”
    “Just a sec!” I shout, gulping the contents of the travel-sized bottle of mouthwash by my sink.
    When we emerge from the hotel, the valet attendant is waiting with Bret’s car, a cherry-red Prius with imported calfskin seats. I wonder how much Bret paid to get the baby cow interior on his environmentally responsible ride. The attendant gets out of the car and hurries over to open the passenger-side door, but Bret beats him to it.
    “Right on schedule,” he says as I slide past him into the car, cringing as the slinky fabric slides up my thigh.
    “But a few minutes ago you said we were late,” I say when Bret joins me in the car.
    “Necessary exaggeration,” Bret replies, flashing an impish smile. “I find that women move more quickly when there’s time pressure.” He guns the accelerator, and we speed away from the curb. Women. I think of the parade of females Bret has been linked with in the past: actresses, models, and most recently, a fashion designer. These women are, well, women . Suddenly, the fact that my not-yet-eighteen-year-old virgin self has just gotten into a car with this allegedly-thirty-three-but-probably-more-like-forty-year-old (wearing nothing but a pajama top and boots, mind you) seems like a really, really bad idea.
    Bret glances over at me as we whiz down Venice Boulevard. “What are you thinking right now?” he asks. “You have a funny look on your face.” He slows long enough for us to turn, then speeds up again.
    “I just can’t believe I’m gonna be eighteen in a couple hours,” I say, drawing out the word. “I still feel so young, you know?”
    Bret just laughs. “You are young.” He turns the wheel sharply and slams on the brakes. “We’re here.”
    We’re parked in a narrow alleyway next to a windowless black brick building with an electric-blue door. A restaurant? At first I think so, but there’s no sign, no awning, no menu out front. Nothing to indicate what’s inside.
    Oh, God. This isn’t a restaurant. It’s some weird sex club.
    “I hope you’re hungry,” Bret says, leaning across me to push open the passenger door. “Everything on the menu is amazing.” Not a weird sex club! I am elated. Bret grins at me. “Welcome to your birthday party, Birthday Girl.”
    To my surprise, there are about twenty people waiting for us inside, exactly enough to fill the restaurant’s private cellar. I recognize most of them, all from the movie. Bret steps away to talk to our server, and someone hands me a glass of champagne. I down it like I’m used to being handed glasses of champagne in super-swanky back rooms, hoping it’ll help take the awkward edge off the evening.
    “Abby!” Kirby, the youngest (and from the looks of it, drunkest) member of the cast beelines over to me, teetering in four-inch heels. “Can you believe this?” she breathes, clutching my shoulder for balance. Whoa. Hello, vodka. I see you’ve met Kirby. “This is, like, ohmyGodlikeTHEplacerightnow ,” she gushes in a heavy Boston accent I didn’t know she had. “You, like, can’t even get a reservation unless you’re somebody.”
    “Wow.” I glance over at Bret, who’s busy giving one of the servers detailed instructions. He catches me watching him and winks.
    “We need cocktails,” Kirby announces, letting go of my shoulder and grabbing my elbow. She drags me toward the bottle-laden table in the corner of the room and pours herself a Red Bull and vodka. I watch as she downs it, then immediately pours herself another. “RBV?” she asks, waving the vodka bottle in my face.
    “No, thanks.” I’m already feeling the champagne.
    “Whatever.” She shrugs, then ambles off, taking the bottle with her.
    “So how’d I do, Birthday Girl?” I hear Bret ask, his voice at my ear. I turn to face him, immediately aware of how close his lips are to mine. “You know, you’re not an easy read,” he murmurs, brushing the hair off my face. “Not