I look at Yaz. “Go do that,” she says.

“Bye, Yaz,” I say, acknowledging this might be my last time to see her. Elijah nearly drags me back into the living room. I’ve never really danced at a party, but tonight, I go for it. I move around, somewhere near the beat, as the champagne makes everything feel all right. My arms feel light, this moment feels light, I have so much darkness ahead, but this moment is all light.

I dance until my hair feels a bit sweaty. I leave Elijah in the middle of a dance-off with Jamaal. I find a couch and check my email, wondering if there will be something about Conversion. Or maybe the producers will call? I wish Mr. Daniels had never told me. When I’m forced home tomorrow, I would have had no idea. Now I’ll always wonder what could have happened. I was right—ignorance is bliss.

“August?”

I look up and see Maggie. She’s wearing a black turtleneck with a gold chain and jeans. Her hair is parted in the middle. “Hey,” I say.

“You made it after all. Your family thing end early?”

I pocket my phone. “You could say that. And I wanted to see you.”

“Me?” she asks, blushing a little.

“Want to have a seat?” I ask, extending my hand to the sofa.

“I’m actually heading home. I need to be up early. I work at a guitar shop on the weekends.”

“Oh, just in case you needed to be any cooler,” I joke, trying to hide that I’m completely bummed she’s leaving. Maybe if I tell her this is my last night here, she’ll stay.

“Maybe you’d like to walk me home?”

I look around. The party is dwindling down. “It would be an honor.”

Maggie takes my hand and we walk directly to the elevator, unseen by most people—too busy dancing, and singing, and making out. I spot Elijah talking and gesturing excitedly. The black-tie guy hands me my trench coat, which gets a laugh from Maggie. I snap a few pictures of us in the mirrored elevator. They will be good memories of my time in New York.

It’s cold but not freezing. It’s hand-in-your-pocket weather but not time for gloves. “You live close?”

“No, I’m making you walk me to Brooklyn,” she jokes.

“I would,” I say. “But I also live there.”

We pass by a man walking three dogs the size of small horses. Maggie tells me about her mom, who works on Wall Street, and her cat that sleeps in her guitar case. She tells me about growing up in New York, and I could listen to her talk forever. “Want to play a game?” I suggest.

“Sure,” she says.

“Quick-fire questions. I ask, you answer,” I say, borrowing Anna’s game.

“I’m ready.”

I think fast. “Favorite color?”

She laughs. “Are we ten years old?”