I’d been thinking about a time in my middle school locker room, when I had been scanning the lanky body of Jennifer Howell as she peeled off her sports bra and then expertly clipped a lacy pink one over her little round breasts. I remember standing in cotton panties printed with cartoon cats, a white undershirt on my flat skinny torso, and her turning toward me, her shoulders gleaming with glitter lotion, somehow tan despite the rain all school year long, saying, “Stop looking at me, lesbo.”

All the girls spun around, their faces contorted with disgust. I looked down at my skinny legs, noticing all the hair on them, and mumbled, “I wasn’t,” the only thing I could think to say.

Lonnie didn’t chide me; she didn’t seem to notice my gaze. When she finally found what she was looking for—a long coral dress with a low back and square neckline—she ran her hands over her tits, directing my attention to her nipples, rigid against the silky fabric, saying, “Is this okay? I can’t wear a bra.”

CARLOW WAS SITTING IN THE GREEN WINGBACK CHAIR NEXT TO a pyre of yellow beeswax candles in the fireplace. I noticed him around the time the carefully arranged dining room table became covered in stray drinks and cocktail napkins with rings of cherry-colored wine stains. The living room, reflected in the windows, vibrated with laughter. I watched Lonnie, barefoot, weave away from him, refilling glasses without permission. People were beginning to sway as they spoke, to lean in closer together.

There was something boyish about his face. I tried to pinpoint where the impression came from—he had full cheeks, large brown eyes, and thick unkempt eyebrows just asymmetrical enough to make his face look a little doubtful. His dark hair was cropped close on the sides but fell in a long perfect wave on top. These details were all inconsequential in an interesting way—his features floated around his smirking mouth as if they existed only to give it form. The smirk wasn’t mean, but rather made him look like he was amused by something no one else had noticed. He wasn’t talking to anyone; he was smiling dopily to himself.

I walked over to him, William, still nibbling a cookie, sitting astride my hip. He smiled up at us and said, “Hello.”

Emboldened by the fact that no one was watching me at that moment, I said, “You look content for someone sitting all alone.”

“I’m not alone,” he said. “I’m at a party.”

He was still smiling, wrinkling up the skin by his eyes. I wished I weren’t carrying this baby. And I wished I owned a nicer dress than the cheap belted cotton thing I’d thought would be sufficient.

“Carlow,” he said.

“I’m Elle,” I said, choosing to use Lonnie’s nickname for me.

He offered a firm handshake.