“No idea.” Mia cuts me off. “He and Finn went out for beers earlier and back he comes with it. He hasn’t taken it off in hours, but has refilled it three times. Stand back ladies”—she bends, digging a beer out of the cooler—“he’s all mine.”

And at the mention of his name, I catch sight of Finn across the room. He must have come in with them. My stomach does an annoying clench-warm-flip move when he laughs over something Ansel says and lifts his arm to adjust his baseball hat. His bicep flexes and my stomach ignites. I chug half my beer to make the feeling go away, imagining the hiss and steam as the metaphorical flames are put out.

“I didn’t know Finn was coming tonight.” But what was I thinking? That they would leave him at home alone? Finn is just one more complication my already frazzled brain can’t quite handle right now.

Mia twists the cap off her beer and watches me, a little smile in her eyes. “Is that okay?”

Civil. Band of misfit buddies, I remind myself. “You know it’s fine.”

“As long as it doesn’t try to speak, right?”

Laughing, I nod. “Right.”

Lola rubs my back and then tilts her head, indicating she’s going to join the people gathering to play cards. “You good here?”

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’ll probably just hang back and watch you guys be awesome.”

After making sure I don’t need company, Mia follows her, and I’m left alone in the brightly lit kitchen, watching the small group around the dining table. Ansel licks his thumb and then begins dealing cards, tossing them expertly across the table to each player. I feel a little lost, like I shouldn’t be here but unable to go home, either. I’m too tight in my skin, too warm in this apartment.

A shadow dips past me and when I turn, I find a bleached-blond mohawked guy bending to pull a wine cooler out of the fridge.

“Interesting beverage choice,” I say. “Passion punch!”

He turns and laughs, nodding in total agreement. He’s gorgeous, if not a little dirty, but his smile showcases a mouthful of perfect, white teeth—a La Jolla hippie boy. Of course. “Have you ever had these? They taste like juice!”

The cheap wine cooler is a newfound, amusing novelty? Definitely a La Jolla hippie boy.

“I’m Harlow,” I say, extending my hand. “And if you want juice, why don’t you just drink juice?”

He shakes it. “There is very little trouble to be had in juice,” he says, before pointing the bottle at his chest and adding, “Not-Joe.”

“ ‘Nacho’?”

“No. Not. Joe. Oliver, my new boss? Calls me Joey. I think he’s fucking with me, like a kangaroo thing because he’s Australian? But it isn’t my name.”