It’s dark in the house, the rooms lit only by blue track lights that give everyone an alien look. The music is throbbing — Slippery by Migos. The air is humid with body heat.

I find Grisha. He’s already half drunk. His usually slicked-back hair is flopping down over his eyes, and his shirt is half-unbuttoned to show his bare chest and his collection of gold chains.

He throws an arm around my shoulder and kisses me hard on the cheek.

“There she is,” he says in Russian. “My little Elsa.”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap, in English.

“I thought you said your name was Yelena?” Sebastian asks.

“He means Elsa from Frozen,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“You gonna turn me to ice?” Sebastian says, lightly.

“She might,” Grisha says. “She don’t like men. Just like Elsa.”

“I like you,” I say to Grisha, sweetly. “But then, you’re not much of a man.”

Grisha laughs and takes another swig of his drink. He’s drinking directly out of a bottle of Stoli Elit. “Want some?” he says to me.

“Sure,” I say, defiantly. There’s plenty of people here who will rat me out for drinking, but at this moment I really don’t give a fuck. I take a long pull, enjoying the bright citrus flavor of Grisha’s expensive vodka. I could take a bath in that.

Grisha is squinting at Sebastian. “You look familiar,” he says.

Sebastian nods like he gets that a lot. “I played point guard for the University of Chicago,” he says.

Grisha shakes his head. “No, no,” he says. Then he snaps his fingers. “Ah! I know your brother Nero. We raced each other once.”

Sebastian grins. “Did you win?”

Grisha scowls. “No! He’s a tricky fucker. Took twenty K from me.”

“That sounds like Nero,” Sebastian agrees.

Bored of my cousin, I pull Sebastian away from Grisha. If I let him, Grisha will go on about drag racing all night long. And I’ve heard more than enough on that particular topic.

I’d rather hear more about the other thing Sebastian mentioned.

“You’re an athlete?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

This is the first time I’ve seen the smile fall off his face.

“You played basketball?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Were you any good?”

“Yes,” he says, without arrogance. “Pretty good.”

“Why did you quit?”

He hesitates just a fraction of a second. “I got bored of it.”

Hmm. I think this good boy Sebastian just lied to me.

That heavy pull of vodka is starting to take effect on me. I can feel pleasant warmth spreading through my chest. My mood lightens ever so slightly.

“You want a drink, too?” I ask Sebastian, in an almost-friendly tone.

We head into the kitchen, where Grisha has a veritable cornucopia of alcohol laid out: liquor, mixers, beer of all types, and a horrific-looking punch that I wouldn’t drink to save my life.

“What do you like?” I ask.

“You ever drink tequila?” Sebastian asks me.