A pompadoured beauty with glitter lotion and a purple dye job held out a roach—just an inch of magic grass encased in twisted paper—and I gazed into her eyes for less than a second to assess if the joint was laced before accepting. I exhaled toward the ceiling, watching as the smoke wafting above joined the white cloud already hovering the span of vast space that was our gallery, meant for après ski, wine, and sophisticated guests, not the drunken blue-collar locals who were rubbing against paintings and knocking over vases.

I immediately relaxed, letting my head fall back against the sofa cushion. As recreational cannabis goes, Colorado was one of three states that qualified as my top favorite places to be during a holiday. The fact that my parents kept a vacation home in Estes Park made it my number one.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

I turned to face her cherubic splendor, unsurprised that she was at a packed party without knowing the host. “Ellie,” I said, barely paying attention to her sleepy, red-rimmed eyes.

“Ellie Edson? Are you Ellison’s sister?”

I sighed. This wasn’t the conversation I felt like having. “I’m Ellison.”

Her eyebrows turned in as confusion shadowed her face. “But … Ellison’s a dude, right? The guy who owns this house?” She giggled and rested her cheek on her arm. “Are you like … twins or something?”

I leaned back, grinning as she spontaneously ran her fingers through my long, dark hair. One of her arms had been inked with various sizes of black-lined skulls and bright blue roses; the other was a blank canvas.

“No, I’m Ellison, the dude who owns this house.”

She giggled loudly at my joke, and then kneeled on the floor in front of my chair. “I’m Paige.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“What makes you think I’m a local?” she asked.

She was focused on my every word, the one-sided attraction making me feel a strange combination of exhilaration and tedium. Paige was more than just beautiful; she wore hope the way she carried her sad stories—out in the open, for everyone to see, vulnerable even when her heart had been broken too many times to repair.

I held out the roach. “Your eyes are absent of a lifetime of failed expectations and the guilt of wasting limitless resources.”

She giggled. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Exactly.”

“Is that painting of your parents?” she asked, pointing her short, chipped nails at the portrait across the room.

I sighed. “That’s them—attempting to buy immortality.”

“They don’t look so bad. They gave you all of this.”

“No, it’s still theirs. I’m just borrowing it. People like us learn early to quit giving things away for free.”

“People like you?” she asked, amused. “As in, people who own a gazillion-square-foot house?”

“Several of them,” I said.