She must have been lonely, although it’s funny to think of her that way. She always seemed to have everything, even though, in retrospect, she didn’t have much at all: her mom gone, no money, her dad in his porn shop and spending all weekend at the bar.

Kaycee was the only one who dreamed of going to art school, who dreamed of doing anything besides getting married and staying right here to have babies and start the cycle all over again. Even as a kid, she would talk about all the places she would go someday, half of them made up. In a way, what’s surprising isn’t that she ran, but maybe that she waited so long.

“I don’t believe it.” A stranger shoves out of the crowd, teetering on wedges that would be dangerous even if she was sober. “Abby. Fucking. Williams. Holy shit. I seriously didn’t believe it when Misha told me you’d come back.”

She sways where she stands, shaking her head as if hoping it will help her focus. But her eyes keep sliding away from mine, landing somewhere over my shoulder. And I have absolutely no idea who she is.

“You don’t remember me.” Her words slur into laughter. She swings to Brent, sloshing some of her drink, so he has to quickstep backward to avoid it. “She doesn’t remember me? It’s because I got fat.” Then she’s back to me again, gnawing the rim of her cup, looking suddenly like a kid. “Isn’t it? It’s because I’m fat.”

“Of course I remember you,” I say quickly.

“What’s my name, then?” She staggers a bit, regains her balance, and smiles at me hazily.

Brent breaks in before I have to reply. “Come on, Annie. Let’s get you some water.”

Now, at last, I recognize Annie Baum. The former head cheerleader, once miniature and muscled, is soft from drinking, prematurely old.

She pulls away from Brent as soon as he takes her arm. “Don’t touch me,” she says sharply. But when Brent holds up both hands, a wordless apology, she turns cheerful again. “It’s a party, isn’t it? So let’s party.”

She wastes more alcohol than she lands in her cup. Before I can stop her, she has pressed a shot into my hand. The liquid is already sweating through the flimsy paper cup, like the kind you see in dentists’ offices.

“How about you, Brent? A drink, for old times’ sake?” Annie seems to find this idea hilarious, and says, “Old friends, old memories, old. We’re old, now.”

Before she can drink, Misha materializes, neatly snatching the cup from Annie’s hand.

“You need to slow down,” she says lightly. For a second, Annie looks like she might argue.

But in the end, she only shrugs and turns back to me. “She always could tell me what to do,” she says. “Both of them.” I assume she means Kaycee, too. Then she wheels off abruptly into the crowd.

“Three times in one week! How did I get so lucky?” Misha manages to level off directly between sincere and sarcastic. She touches her cup to mine. “Cheers. Go on. You deserve it.”