The Uber turns into a neighborhood that looks a lot like Chatham Hills, where Dash and I grew up. The lawns around the homes are huge—two or three acres, easily; the houses are super-sized and flashy. We pass a few homes while I avoid Dash’s eyes, and then our Uber turns into a long driveway lined with mid-sized willow trees.

Sara Blaise’s house has a stone façade and a slate roof, plus two towers on each end that make it look a bit like a chalet. In front of the house, there’s a big, copper statue of a stallion on its hind hooves. Our driver follows the line of traffic to a spot beside the statue, where a valet with a light wand waves us forward, toward parking on the left side of the house.

“Here is fine,” Dash interjects.

I reach into my purse, then feel his hand on my wrist. He reaches between the two seats, handing the driver some cash. His left knee presses against the outside of my thigh. I feel like I can’t breathe. It takes forever for the driver to pocket the money and Dash to move.

I hurry out of the car, and am headed around the rear when I meet Dash at the right tail light. His eyes travel partway down my body as he gives me a little nod.

Awkward.

But what are we going to do? Not walk in together? We have no choice, at this point, but to take the stairs up side-by-side. I make a banal comment about the pretty house as we climb. As we near the doors, I say, “Thanks for the ride. Have a good night.”

Dash goes one way, I go the other, and that’s the way it should be. I don’t feel sad. That’s insanity.

I know of Sara Blaise in name only. She ran the studio before Disney bought it, and I think she still does—mostly. I’m not sure her age, and it’s impossible to tell because this place is not the kind with family snapshots on display.

The Blaise house is a showpiece, spit-shined and incredibly appointed—a work of art in its own right. I spend my first half hour sipping champagne and wandering through rooms with Meredith and Carrie, trying to pretend my heart’s not dangling outside me, sensing Dash in every room.

I tell myself that this is normal. Of course I still have feelings for him. Anybody would in my shoes. I’ve been in therapy enough to know you can’t just snap your fingers and change your feelings. I need to change the way I think before I can change the way I feel.

I need to think of Dash as someone who abandoned me, not as an old friend.

As for what happened at the park the other day, when I ran off instead of listening to him? It doesn’t matter what he would have said. Nothing would excuse what he did. Nothing could make me trust him.

I run into Weiss—“Things are going great!”—and then Meredith, Carrie, and I bump into Ashley. We pal around together for a while, rubbing elbows with Nashville big shots and marveling a two-story wall of tissue-paper flowers, a round foyer table showcasing a tree carved out of ivory, and a hairless cat perched on a bannister (we think he’s fake before he stretches, then hops down).

Elaborate buffets are set up in three separate dining rooms, but none of us are hungry, so we mostly stick to champagne. I’m on my second glass, and laughing at a joke Meredith told, when we move into a billiards room and come across a group of guys at a card table.

My eyes shoot to Dash like magnets. Dash—and the tall blonde behind him. She’s got her hand on his head, sifting through his hair like she owns it.

“Sara Blaise,” Carrie whispers.

“Where?”

“She’s the one with the blonde updo, over there by Dash!”

“I’ve heard they’re friendly,” Ashley marvels.

I try to keep my face blank. “That’s her? Isn’t she young?”

“She is so young,” Carrie whispers conspiratorially. “She’s only thirty-two.”

“Really? Wow.”

The next half hour has to be one of the longest of my life. Evil Sara Blaise is stuck to Dash like white on rice: like she’s his date. Servers swarm their table, where Dash is playing a card game with Adam, plus a few people I don’t know. Finally the evil witch releases him, but while half of their table gets up, Dash, Adam, and one woman stay, talking intensely about something I can’t hear for the crush of bodies in between us.

I try to feign interest in Ashley’s story about her boyfriend’s internship at “a covert government agency” and keep my shoulders squared, even as I stalk Dash with my eyes.

He seems happy, at ease. I notice him drinking something, but I’m not close enough to gauge the color of the liquid in his glass. Whiskey? At some point, he removes his tie and loosens his shirt. Sara Blaise comes back, squeezing his shoulder, so I’m shocked when one of the men near Dash strolls over and pats her lightly on the backside.

“That’s Dirk Jackson,” Carrie tells me. “He’s a big country music producer. He’s her husband.”

Color me confused—until I realize: Dash’s parents. He must know Mrs. Blaise via her husband and his parents, since Mr. and Mrs. Frasier also work in the music industry.

Dash gets up and works the nearby crowd, chatting with two men and a woman for a while as I start on my third glass of champagne.

I’m how far from him? Fifteen yards?

I feel a little queasy.

I finish my glass as a new woman descends, touching Dash’s elbow. He pushes his sleeve back, revealing a watch, and for whatever reason, the woman hugs him.

My work friends are contemplating going behind the house to the dance floor when I decide it’s time for me to go outside. I’ve made the requisite contacts and connections. I can take a breather, maybe even go home early.

Luckily, we’re on the second floor, and almost every room has a balcony.

I make excuses to my crew and, as I head toward a nearby door, I hear Dash’s laughter. I encounter a waitress near the balcony door; when she offers another flute of champagne, I happily accept.

Once through the doors, I realize I’m on the side of the house, on a spacious, cement balcony that seems to be tacked onto one of the home’s big, round towers. It’s the size of a small bedroom and littered with high-end lounge chairs.

I walk over to one in the far corner, partially hidden behind some sort of potted plant, and sink down, nursing my drink as I watch the starry sky. Country-rock music floats through the humid air, and I realize it’s the Gin Rangers playing out back, behind the house.

What are the odds?

I hear a squeak, followed by a cacophony of chatter, as the balcony door is pushed open and two figures emerge. Wouldn’t you know, it’s Dash—and our studio’s assistant, Mallorie. Her frizzy, red hair is smooth and clearly styled tonight. She’s got on a green pantsuit that makes her ass look really nice—and from my angle, she looks younger than I think she really is.

As they approach the balcony railing and start talking six or seven feet away from me, I panic; I can’t go inside without walking right past them.

Mallorie laughs. Dash lights something, which I think will be a cigarette, but which turns out to be a cigar. Adam comes out, clad in khakis and a button-up, and Dash gives him a cigar, too. Adam talks to Dash and Mallorie for a few minutes before putting his cigar out and disappearing back inside. Another woman comes out—this one short and curvy, maybe forty or forty-five, with green hair, talking to Mallorie and Dash for a minute before she wanders closer to the doors and starts a conversation with two men who just stepped out.

I shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep, because I do feel kind of sleepy. Maybe four glasses was too many…

The air is warm and soft. I feel surprisingly comfortable here in my reclining lounge chair, even as my drunk brain tries to follow Dash and Mallorie’s conversation.

But…I can’t.

Whatever.

Several times I peek my eyes open, noting more people coming and going. Once, Mallorie’s squeaky voice cuts into my bubble—I think I hear her saying something about her dog peeing—and I glance over to see Dash run his hand back through his shorter hair.

Then more people come out, a whole gaggle of them. I sit up, and a cute guy, who turns out to be the animator intern from another summer team, steps over to flirt. He sits at the bottom of my chair, and we talk about motorized scooters and skateboarding, of all things. He invites me to the dance floor behind the house. When I tell him I’m about to go home, he leaves.

I stand up by the rail, hoping to casually drift inside. Then a handsome older man offers to get me a drink.

I tell him “no thank you” and notice Dash’s eyes on me from the other side of the now-crowded balcony.

The black-haired man is an engineer for Imagine. He asks about my summer plans and tells me I should take a job here if I’m offered one. He asks me who I’m partnered with, and I say just “Dash,” because I’m drunk.

“Dash Frazier?”

I nod, feeling woozy.

“Stellar guy.”

I almost take issue with that comment, and that’s how I know I must be drunker than I realized.

Oops.

A few minutes later, I slink back over to my chair to grab my purse. I think I’ll go now. Get an Uber before I say or do something I’ll regret. I lean my head back, tipped up toward the sky, and am aware of movement beside me right as a familiar voice says, “See anything good up there?”

I jump. Dash has just sat in the chair beside mine. He smells like cologne—and the dry cleaners. He gives me a lazy smile. “Having a good night?”

“Yep.” When he doesn’t reply, just looks at me, assessing, I blurt, “I saw you talking to Mallorie. Are you two close?”

He rubs his forehead, smiling like he knows something I don’t. “I wouldn’t say so, not especially.”

“I think I caught something about her dog’s bladder infection.”

Dash snorts, shaking his head. “She’s married to one of the seniormost animators at Disney, a woman who’s my mentor out in Burbank. She usually works out there, so I’m a friend of her and her wife.”

“How old is her wife?”

“I think maybe pushing sixty.”

“Mallorie is a lot younger.”

“Not really. She’s forty-nine.”

I gape. “What about the house’s owner—er, hostess? How old is she?”

“Sara? She is young.”

“How’d she…?”

“Get where she is?”

Dash shrugs. “Talented and well-connected.”

“Oh.” With nothing more interesting to add, I confess, “I had too much to drink.”

“Did you now?”

He leans back in his lounge chair, and I have a memory of another starry night, with Dash lying down and me sitting beside him on his roof.

“I was nervous,” I say, noting that the deck has cleared out. There’s only one guy on the other side of the space, leaning on the balcony and talking on his phone.

“How come?”

How come I’m nervous, I remind myself; that’s what he asked just now. That little voice inside your head that keeps your mind on track? Mine is currently drowned in alcohol.

“Don’t ask me that,” I tell Dash, wagging a finger at him. “I’m not sober enough to talk to you.”

His eyebrows arch as he tucks his hands behind his head. “No?”

“Nope.”

“You want me to go inside?”

I don’t—but there is alcohol inside. “You could go get me another drink.”

He frowns. Then he gets up. “Be right back.”

Dash returns with orange juice, and I notice as he steps onto the deck, spilling light across the cement floor, that the man who was talking on his phone is gone now. It’s just Dash and me.

I take the orange juice. Dash reclaims his chair beside mine. I can’t read his face. I’m too drunk to think high-level thoughts.

“You don’t have to sit out here,” I manage.

“I could use a breather.”

I look him over, surprised anew by how damn hot he is. “You’re Mr. Social. I guess you always were. I wasn’t.” I smooth my fingertips over the pattern on my dress and sigh. “People make me super tired.”

“You’re in a sorority, though. I saw on your CV.”

“That’s true. Different, though.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know…” I look at his strange, familiar-not-familiar adult Dash face. “I guess because I know the rules.”

“Not here?”

It takes me a second to discern what he means. “Definitely not here.” I bite my lip. “You’re here.”

“There aren’t any rules with me, Amelia.”

“Just Amelia,” I say, wagging my finger again. “None of that old nickname shit.”

He nods.

Then somehow, I spill my orange juice. Dash is by me, dabbing the hem of my dress with a napkin. I lean back, needing to get away from the heat of him, the smell of him. But my hand didn’t get the memo; I grab his arm and look into his hazel eyes.

“I can’t believe this happened,” I say drunkenly.

“What?” His voice is rough.

“You’re my boss.” I give a bitter laugh.

“I’m not your boss, Amelia.”

“Partner, then.” My head feels unsteady, so I blink a few times. “I thought you were overseas.”

“For a year. And that was a while back.”

“I saw that somewhere…” I murmur, feigning casual; I hope he can’t tell from my face that I know because I stalked him online. “Did you like it?” I ask as he leans back away from me, one hand holding wadded napkins.

“Yes—I did.”

His voice is strange. I’m too drunk to know exactly how. Stupid Amelia. Leave it to me to get drunk and chat up Dash. I lean toward him, rubbing my finger over the scar I saw near his temple at work.

“How’d you get this?”

He leans subtly away from me, so my fingertip is touching air. “Hit it on something in the gym.” His voice sounds rough.

“By accident?”

“Fighting.”

“Why were you fighting in the gym?”

“Krav Maga. We were sparring.” He stands slowly, then sits back on his chair. His face, I notice, is excessively neutral. The kind of neutral that isn’t really neutral.

I sit up, leaning slightly toward him. “Is that karate?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you show me some moves?” I giggle.

He gives a low laugh. “Not here.”

I get up, then plunk myself down at the bottom of his chair. I lean toward him and let my dumb thoughts flow out of my drunken mouth. “I liked it when you were sitting with me on my chair…”