The rest of the cocktail hour proceeds without incident. Thanks to Caroline, we meet almost everyone in the room and get the basic info about them. 95% of them are Ivy League grads and the other 5% went to prestigious liberal arts schools like Swarthmore and Wellesley. Many work in finance and tech, some head non-profits and the rest are entrepreneurs. They all heard about the party one way or another through friends of friends and no one really knows what to expect. And none of them know the identity of the mysterious Mr. Black.  

After mingling for what seems like forever, I decide to get some fresh air and get away from the stuffiness of all those pleasantries. Caroline is totally in her element – smiling, nodding, laughing at just the right times. Putting everyone at ease. Becoming everyone’s best friend. But I find that kind of stuff exhausting. Even after a half an hour of it, I'm ready to tear my hair out, 

“I’m sorry, but I have to go to the ladies room,” I extricate myself from the tall, redheaded guy from Princeton who is on his second story about squash (the game, not the vegetable). I didn’t know it was possible for one person to have more than one story about squash, but apparently it is.  

“Okay, hurry back,” he says flashing me a smile. Though his self-confidence and sense of his own importance are quite staggering, he is quite mesmerizing. For a second, I get lost in his eyes and almost forget to walk away.  

“Ellie? You okay?” he takes my arm, bringing me back to reality.  

“Oh right, sorry,” I mumble. “I’ll be right back.”  

What was his name again? Dax? Wyatt? Delacorte? I’ve never been great with names, and my memory for matching faces with names is particularly bad at this party. They’re all so good looking and their names just seem to all blur together.  

As I make my way away from him, I feel the Princeton guy’s eyes on me burning into the back of my head. So, instead of walking straight onto the deck from the main room, I head toward the hallway with the bathroom and then outside.  

When I finally get outside, I inhale a deep breath of fresh salty air. That one breath is quickly followed up by another and another. Suddenly, all the boredom that had infected me during the cocktail hour vanishes and the chill of the outside air infuses me with new found energy.  

“Well, hello there,” a deep voice says. It belongs to a man and it’s coming from somewhere behind me.  

Great, another boring conversation coming up. I roll my eyes before turning to face him.  

“Sometimes you just have to get out of there, right?” the man says.  

That piques my interest. Intrigued, I turn around.  

“Are you not having a good time?” I ask.  

“Eh,” the man shrugs casually, looking far into the blueness. The sun is hovering just over the horizon, dipping in and out of the sea, as if it isn't sure if it wants to take the plunge.  

“Isn’t the sunset beautiful?” the man asks without taking his eyes off it.  

I turn to face him. He’s dressed in an impeccable black suit. His starched collar is unbuttoned and the sleeves of his suit are rolled up. He isn't wearing a tie. It suddenly hits me. He must be the only guy here without a tie! 

“Yes,” I agree unable to pull my gaze away from him.  

Casually, the man leans over the railing, staring into the distance. The wind casually tosses around his short, honey blonde hair without bothering him one bit.  

“So, where did you go to school?” I ask.  

This has been the go-to conversation starter throughout the cocktail party and bad habits die hard. I’m not really interested, but frankly I can’t think of anything else to ask.  

“Oh c’mon,” he says turning to face me. “We can do better than that.” 

Before I have the chance to figure out how to respond, the man effortlessly pulls himself up to the railing and sits on top of it.  

“Oh my God, what are you doing?” I gasp. “You’re going to fall off.” 

The railing is made of thick wood, reinforced by thin pieces of metal laid out in horizontal slats. Just over it, are the whites of the waves that crash into the ship. 

“No, I’m not,” he says with a coy smile, wrapping his feet around one of the horizontal slats.  

He puts his hand on mine. Suddenly, I realize that my hand is on his thigh and I quickly remove it.  

“You can keep it there,” he says. “It feels nice.” 

“You’re going to fall,” I say with exasperation. He’s toying with me. I can feel it. Making me mad. And he’s doing it on purpose.  

“So, you’re not having a good time at the party?” he asks, brushing the windswept hair out of my face. I take a step back as soon as I feel his warm hand on my face.  

“I wouldn’t say that,” I say.  

“So, is that what you are doing here, on the deck, all by your lonesome? Getting away from everyone?” 

Is this guy for real? Ever since my mom married Mitch, I’ve become quite acquainted with the kind of confidence that runs through the blood of those who summer in the Hamptons. But this guy, he’s taking it to a whole new level.  

After a moment of silence, he jumps off the railing and positions himself right in front of me.  

“I’m Harrison. Harrison Brooks. But people just call me Brooks.”   

“Hi,” I say unamused. I’m getting quite sick of how casually he infringes on my personal space– both vertical and horizontal. 

“And you are?” he asks, taking a step closer. I can feel his breath on my face. Even though I’m angry and annoyed, I find it intoxicating.  

“Ellie,” I say, reluctantly extending my hand.  

“Do you have a last name Ellie?” he asks shaking my hand.  

“Yes,” I say and turn to walk away from him. Not that you're getting it. 

“You have spunk, Ellie,” Brooks yells after me. “I like that.” 

As I make my way around the empty deck, my mind wanders back to Brooks. Maybe I should’ve stayed. Perhaps I was a bit rude. No, he was the one who was rude. Sitting up on the railing. Coming too close to me. Breaking all rules of social conduct and politeness. Who the hell does he think he is? 

And yet despite all of these things – or perhaps because of them – I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about him. His deep blue eyes. His soft lips. His arrogant demeanor. His shiny hair. Agh, someone stop me! I walk back into the main room where the cocktail party was still supposed to be in full bloom. But much to my surprise, it isn’t.  

“Where is everyone?” I ask one of the servants who is wiping down the tables. How long was I out there? I wonder to myself.  

“Back in their rooms, I guess,” he says with a shrug.