Deserve—maybe. I need it, for sure. I almost never take shots and am thankful, at least, that Annie poured out whiskey and not rum. Still, it’s cheap liquor, and it burns going down.

Brent must notice my grimace, because he laughs.

“Let me make you a real drink. No—don’t tell me.” He pretends to size me up. “Now let me see. Vodka cran? No. Too sweet. Definitely not gin. Too suburban.”

“You think you can guess?”

“I don’t think. I know.” He holds my gaze for just a beat longer than necessary before turning to Misha. “You want something? Gin and tonic?”

Her smile tightens. “Gin and soda,” she corrects him.

“Coming up. Don’t go head to head with this one,” he says, turning back to me and jerking his head in Misha’s direction. “She’ll drink you under the table. Or under the reservoir, as the case may be.”

He says it lightly, but for some reason, Misha flinches. Once, I told my mother I wanted to be a mermaid, and she told me that real mermaids were the drowned souls of broken-hearted women; I don’t know why I remember that now. I blink as if it will help clear out the memory.

Brent turns and shoves his way toward the makeshift bar: a litter of alcohol bottles and mixers spread out on a blanket. Already, I can feel the whiskey doing its work, spreading warmth to my chest, softening the glow of the fire. Misha tonight looks more like the Misha I remember, in jeans and a Barrens Tigers T-shirt.

“Brent was so worried you wouldn’t come,” she says brightly, without preamble. “I told him you wouldn’t miss the chance to relive the glory days. Isn’t that what going home is all about?”

I can feel her watching me for a reaction—but what kind of reaction, I’m not sure. It occurs to me that Misha never had a boyfriend in high school. She had plenty of boys—but no boyfriend. I wonder if she was jealous of what Kaycee had. Another question I’ll never ask her.

“Maybe for some. In my glory days, I would never have been invited. And they weren’t so glorious. But I’m sure you remember.”

It’s a cheap shot, but hey, at least now we’re even.

But when Misha says, “I deserve that,” it makes me wish I hadn’t said anything.

As I scan the crowd, it occurs to me that I don’t see Cora Allen. She used to stick to Misha like a shadow. “Do you ever see Cora anymore?” I ask, partly to change the topic.

Misha tries to arrange her face into a look of concern. But somehow it doesn’t quite land. “She doesn’t come around,” she says shortly. Then: “She got all messed up, honestly. Drugs.”

Before I can ask her anything else, Brent returns, balancing three cups. He passes one to Misha and presents mine with a flourish. “Cheers.”

I take an experimental sniff. “Vodka soda?”

“Did I guess right?”

“Trick question.” I can’t help but smile. He looks so damn pleased with himself. “I drink it all.”