I was never invited. The bonfires were for the party crowd—for the crowd, period. Still, I would sit outside sometimes and swear that the smoke touched the back of my throat, even from that distance.

Impulsively, I grip my sweater tight and set out across the fields to the forest, and, beyond it, the reservoir—the reservoir, the start of it all—even while yearning for Chicago and the blessed anonymity of the high-rise where I live. I miss being several hundred miles away from my dad, from all this.

The woods are cold and very dark and I instantly regret not bringing a flashlight. The sun will set any minute. But soon I can see the far-off flicker of the bonfire and the silver wink of the reservoir. It was here, in these woods, that Brent kissed me.

Don’t tell anyone, he whispered, touching his thumb to my lower lip. I remember the smell of paint and the noise of crickets.

And then, as I approach the beach, past and present merge. Like shadows silhouetted by the fire, breaking apart and re-forming, the Brent of my memories transforms into real Brent, hailing me from a distance.

“Abby!” He breaks loose from a knot of his friends. I catch Misha’s eye a split-second before she, too, calls up a smile. Then Brent engulfs me in a hug and I lose sight of her. “You are like a surprise from the heavens.”

“You are obviously drunk,” I say, pulling away.

He laughs. “Only a little.” Then: “Seriously, I was just thinking about you.”

As everyone down by the bonfire turns to stare, I recognize various people from high school I’d hoped never to see again. Already, I regret coming. But it’s too late now.

“Meeting of the secret society?” I ask.

“Nothing secret about it,” Brent says, smiling. Today he’s in a polo shirt, khakis, and loafers. He looks like a Ralph Lauren ad made flesh. “I tried to invite you, but you don’t return my calls.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Busy week.”

Brent shrugs as if he knows it’s an excuse. “It doesn’t matter. You came anyway. See? It’s a sign.” He loops an arm around my shoulders. He’s definitely wasted.

“You smell like the beach,” I say, even though what I mean is that he smells like a booze factory.

“I smell great. I just went swimming.”

“In the reservoir? Brave man.”

“It’s one hundred percent safe. You’ll see. Pure as Iceland.” He wheels me around toward the fire and begins piloting me through the crowd. “Come on, city slicker. Let’s get you something to drink. All work and no play never did anybody good.”

If it weren’t for the thinning hairlines and paunch bellies, I might think we’d traveled back in time: I recognize everyone, football and basketball players, cheerleaders and dance squad girls, all of them eyeing me now with a special brand of curiosity and suspicion. I haven’t seen any of them since graduation.

I remember Kaycee painted in school colors, standing and trembling, blinking in the sunlight, as the girls began to fall down like a wave.