The rooftop was even swankier than I’d imagined. Sofas and cushions and candles everywhere. Music, the clink of glasses hitting glasses, and laughter—fake, forced, kind-of-bored laughter—a cloud hovering above all of us. The entrance was manned by a distractible guy whose eyes were the glossy bloodshot of someone completely high. I craned my neck, pretending to look over his shoulder, an aggravated expression on my face.

“You need something?” he asked.

“My friend is carrying my ID,” I said. I ran my hands down my hips. “No pockets. I was parking and she was supposed to wait for me. She must have forgot.”

He scanned the room. “Who’s your friend?”

I let my shoulders slump. “I think I saw her go into the bathroom.” I made a frustrated noise. “I don’t even have my phone. You mind if I go find her?”

“Not supposed to let you in without an ID,” he said, but already I could tell his attention was waning as a line formed behind me.

“I’ll come right back as soon as I have it,” I said, knowing I could get lost in the crowd and he would totally forget about me two minutes after I walked away.

He looked skeptical but nodded anyway. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Sometimes it was just too easy.

I lingered along the edge of the room, pausing to gaze out the windows at the breathtaking view of Los Angeles. I felt like I could see forever.

“Gorgeous, huh?” I heard, startlingly close to me. I jumped, turned. A man who looked old enough to be my dad stood there, grinning at me over a glass of wine. He held a second glass toward me. “Pinot noir?”

I wanted nothing to do with this toad, but I needed to assimilate into the crowd. I needed to fit in. I took the glass, smiled, and clinked it against his lightly. The liquid turned yellowy brown, but I ignored it. I took too big of a sip. He watched me over the top of his glass as he drank, too.

He wasn’t the worst-looking guy in the world.

“That’s a beautiful dress,” he said. He reached out and rubbed the fabric between his fingers. My elbow pulled back slightly, ready to jack him in the throat if he even considered touching me further than that. “Almost looks like a scarf.”

“It kind of is,” I said. I took another sip. “It’s from Bali.”

His eyes lit up and he dropped the fabric. “Oh! You’ve been! I hope you had time to visit Karangasem and Besakih Temple. I would venture to say the most sublime spot on the face of the earth. Agree?”

I let out a self-conscious chuckle. “I haven’t actually been,” I said. “Someone brought me this as a souvenir.”

“You should go,” he said, his eyes never leaving me as he took a drink.

No, you should go, I thought. Go away.