My first apartment in LA had no parking, so every evening ended with a little walk home, usually carrying too many grocery bags. An older lady in my building was always outside tending to her plants. She started saving cuttings for me after I admitted I’d managed to kill a cactus. Soon my windowsill was full of yogurt cups with little green leaves poking out. Whenever I passed her, she’d ask how they were doing. I’d show her pictures on my phone. When I moved, she helped me tuck them into a shoebox so they wouldn’t tip over in the car. I still send her pictures when something flowers. She usually replies with a heart, followed by a reminder not to water it so much.

I went to an open house in the Hollywood Hills because my friend said there would be free snacks. Ten minutes later, I was telling a realtor the kitchen felt “a little small for us.” Us was me and a girl whose card had declined at Trader Joe’s that morning. We inspected the pool, criticized the tiles, and agreed we’d “open up the space.” Neither of us owns a drill. Then he asked what we were looking for, and my friend said, “Honestly, the cheese.” We left with six cubes wrapped in a napkin. He still emails me price reductions. I’m waiting for something closer to my budget, which is the napkin.

I borrowed my friend’s dog for a walk in West Hollywood because I needed fresh air and, ideally, attention. A woman stopped us, took photos, then asked if he had representation. I thought she was joking. She wasn’t. Two weeks later, he booked a dog food campaign. I drove him to set at six in the morning and ate free bagels while he ignored a man holding a squeaky carrot. He made more that day than I did all week. My friend bought him a new bed. I got a tote bag. He has an agent. I have a folder of his vaccination forms. Anyway, I moved to LA to follow my dreams, and somehow I’m managing a pug.