“How do we know one of them wasn’t your stalker?” he said, narrowing his eyes as he looked back over his shoulder.

“We don’t.” Even the thought sent a shiver up my spine. “But you were the one who insisted I come here. You can’t stand guard over me all night. Go have fun.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly earlier,” he grumbled, his face lighting as Tyler appeared in front of us and handed me a glass of white wine and Blair a shot of something brown. They clinked their glasses and tossed the drinks back. I cringed. I could only imagine the burn. Since I’d inherited four children at age nineteen, I hadn’t gone through a wild phase, but I honestly didn’t see the appeal. Give me a glass of wine and a good book over a boozy party any day.

“I’ve been trying to get Blair to dance,” I said to Tyler.

“Go on, man,” Tyler encouraged, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll keep Kennedy company.”

Great.

I rolled my eyes. They meant well, but I didn’t need a pair of man-children trying to manage my life.

“You sure?” Blair asked, obviously tempted.

“Go.” I gave him a little push. “Let loose, but not too much because I don’t want to be trying to get your drunk ass home.”

He grinned and saluted, then strode in the direction of the girl he’d been flirting with earlier.

One down.

“Want to dance?” Tyler asked, offering me a hand. He sounded reluctant, so I shook my head. The last thing I needed was to make him feel uncomfortable.

“No, thanks. I don’t feel like it.”

“Cool.” His tone was relieved. “We can talk instead.” He laid a hand on my arm and gestured to the balcony. “Or we could go out and look at the stars, if you’d prefer.”

“Actually, I need to go to the bathroom.” I shuffled away a few steps, and his hand dropped from me. “I’ll be back soon.”

Or not, if I could help it.

I made a beeline for the ladies’ room. I didn’t really need to use the facilities, but it would give me a chance to clear my head. I ducked inside and looked in the mirror, shock hitting me all over again at the sight of my reflection. The carefully made-up face staring back at me had become a stranger. I’d grown used to seeing all the slight imperfections that were currently hidden beneath a layer of foundation, blush, highlighter, and a dozen other things. With my makeup done and my hair pinned back, I looked like I used to—except for the darker regrowth and the fact my cheeks weren’t quite as hollow.

I grabbed one of the cloths kept for drying hands—no paper towels here—and wet it, then dabbed the base of my throat, needing to cool down.