He loped off toward the front of the room. Such long legs! She glanced over at a nearby table and saw Jake making expansive hand gestures—head! exploding!—in between a poshly dressed man and woman. There was a free seat at the table, so she ambled over and took it.

Jake was finishing his story. “So, yeah, no more political fund-raisers for me.”

The man next to him slapped the table hard, rattling the glasses. To convey violent amusement, presumably?

The woman on his left said, “But seriously, Jake, if you’re ever willing to give it another shot, we’d certainly accept your money.”

This woman was blond and very pretty, but she was so done up that it wasn’t clear what she actually looked like. Even if the fancy clothes were some kind of joke, her dress was clearly expensive, and it fit her perfectly, like a sexy Halloween costume. And she was actually some kind of political shill? It transpired that they were Dora and Richard, a married consulting partnership. Leslie drank deep from someone’s abandoned glass of white wine.

“When are we going to get married, Jake?” she said. The consultants pantomimed curiosity.

“I thought we said next summer,” he said. “Though fall weddings are very in on the East Coast. And I know how much you love the Jersey Shore in November.”

“It’s true,” Leslie said. “When the gray sky hits the brown water just right, it’s almost like you’re in Rhode Island.”

“When did you really start dating?” Richard said. “Jake said you met yesterday, but I don’t believe him.”

“These are the last true things I’ll ever say,” Leslie said. “We met last night. I’ve never kissed him. I’m not sure I’m going to. I don’t remember his last name, if I ever knew it.”

“McLaughlin,” Jake said. He leaned over Richard and kissed Leslie briefly on the mouth.

“Well, there you have it,” Leslie said.

“Right,” said Dora skeptically.

A burst of feedback cut through the room and everyone at the table turned to the stage. Marlon was standing at the microphone with a guitar; two other long-haired wedding guests were on drums and bass.

“Keith,” Marlon said. “Congratulations on getting married. The, uh, wedding band is running a little bit late. So come on up here, buddy. You are fucked.”

Some time later: the promised hot spring. In the dark, with spotlights throwing shadows against high cement walls, the pool felt to Leslie like a POW camp in a barely remembered black-and-white movie. She’d continued drinking through all of the dancing (to a soul band that was marginally better than Marlon’s), and the alcohol had flooded her brain with foreboding. She blamed the darkness.