“Even better. That way, I’m always right.” He touches his cup to mine and holds my eyes while we drink. By the time I think to include Misha, she has vanished.

Things are blurring, and my body feels warm and loose, as if the coil that keeps it responding to my brain has slowly begun to unwind.

“Whoa, there. Easy,” Brent says, and catches me when I stumble on a log half-buried in the grass.

“I’m not drunk,” I say.

“I’m not judging,” he replies, and pulls me closer. I feel his belt against my stomach. I pull away because the world is turning now.

“Do you remember Dave Condor?” I ask, before I can think better of it.

“Sure,” Brent says, but looks away. “He’s still around. Works at the liquor store. Once a burnout, always a burnout.” He tugs on the collar of his shirt. “Why?”

“Just curious,” I downplay. “I ran into him, that’s all.”

“Keep your distance.” Brent’s voice sounds as if it’s coming from far away. “He’s not the guy you want to keep running into.”

“What happened with him in high school?” I ask. “Why did you and your friends jump him?”

His blue eyes lock with mine again, hard to read in the darkness. “You remember Becky Sarinelli?” he asks. “That’s why.”

Of all the things he could have said, this might be the least expected of all. “Condor was the one who passed around her photos?”

Brent shakes his head. “He was the one who took them.”

—

Time shreds into ribbons. Hours fracture into quick-cut images:

I’m sitting on the ground with Brent’s arms around me in front of the fire, laughing without knowing why.

“You’re going hard tonight.” Brent’s voice meanders through my fog. “I like it.”

“I like it,” I repeat, and laugh. I’m fucked up. Too far gone to hide it. I lean against Brent’s chest. He’s so solid and warm. He is comfortable. Brent tilts my chin back toward his to ask me something; and then we are leaning into each other. Kissing. But I’m too drunk to know whether I like it or not.

I pull away. Brent’s eyes hold a look I can’t read.

“Isn’t this funny?” I ask. “We’re kissing. I thought we kissed in high school, and this whole time I haven’t been sure, and we’re kissing now, and I don’t even know whether I made it up.”

“I wanted to. I wanted so badly to kiss you in high school,” Brent whispers. Does this mean he did or he didn’t?

My mind slides to Dave Condor, his mouth hot on my skin…

Dark. Light. Dark. Light.

Becky Sarinelli’s thighs, blazing in the glare of the flash.

The laughter of the crowd in the stands. Her photo fluttering up toward me.

Then:

The faces around the fire are no longer familiar: they are huge, bloated like balloons. Brent’s voice is somewhere in the background, talking incessantly. He won’t be quiet.

I’m sleeping. This is a dream. I lie down, but the ground won’t stop moving. It feels as if I’m on a boat. I try to open my eyes.