At least two guys in the circle have to fiddle with their jeans. One gives up and puts his beer over his crotch and goes to the bathroom. “Did she seriously just start making out with a piece of food?” Hilary whispers.

“Yep,” I breathe, but the thing is, I don’t think there’s a single person in the room who wouldn’t trade places with that hot dog roll.

“Girls, ask for what you want,” Helga says, taking a bow and throwing the soggy hot dog roll in the trash. “And, guys, act like you were raised halfway decently and offer, ’cause hookups are for both people, not just little boys in their cars dreaming of some internet porn they don’t even pay for.”

Everyone laughs, and I’m pretty sure at least all the sex parts in the room are turned on. Why else would we be smiling goofily and semi-clinging to each other? Beer? Hormones? A combination of the two?

Doug passes me a can of Budweiser, and as I hold it in my hands, the red-and-black label takes me out of the stupid fun of this moment. Budweiser was my dad’s favorite before he couldn’t really drink anymore. After he’d finished his mail route, he would sit in the backyard with a beer and listen to Elvis. I’d bring out letters I’d written to my imaginary friends all over the world, and he’d promise to take them to work the next day and send them off. I can smell the inside of his carrying bag now. It smelled like stamps and letters, and anytime I get a whiff of either, I’m filled with the sense that everything will end up where it belongs.

“I’m gonna get some air, be right back,” I say to no one in particular. It takes all my focus to keep my balance as I go up the stairs, but it’s a relief when I get outside—no muggy beer, no sweaty beer breath, no Helga needing all kinds of attention.

“Taking a breather?” someone behind me asks. I hear footsteps on the walkway, and I recognize the voice. Turning around while groaning internally, I say, “Oh, hey, Brendan.”

“Are you okay?” he asks, opening the fence and letting himself into the yard. Tonight his tutu is yellow. “You’re crying.”

“I’m not crying, my eyes just water in the cold.” I wipe my face and turn toward the house, which is framed by two symmetrical trees, because some people’s lives are just tidy like that. Please let this be a quick and painless exit.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he calls, walking after me. I do not turn around.

“I’m sure. Just some family stuff, but all good.” I lean down to, what, befriend the gnome in Gene’s garden? This is not the escape I had in mind.

Brendan shuffles over to me, his sneakers crunching in the cold grass. “You’re totally crying,” he says, and I eye the shed a few hundred feet away. I’ll hide out in there if I have to. “Listen, Cham, I know we don’t really know each other, but if you ever want to talk about something—”