“Oh my God,” I mumbled, clutching my chest. Maria wasn’t even sophisticated enough buy her own dress. Of course Carey lent it to her. I should have known. It’s exactly my size. “I’m so sorry.” I retreated into the closet and yanked it over my head. Too tight, my breathing too heavy, it stuck somewhere around my bra, pinning both arms above my head. “I’m so sorry,” I called out, my voice muffled by the fabric, as I twisted and wiggled, anxiously trying not to rip it. “I didn’t even think about that. I thought that because it was in the same boxes…I just assumed.” I sucked in my stomach, gave a hard yank, and it flew to the ground.

“It’s fine. Carey probably gave it away,” he mumbled.

He sounded so upset. I hated what I’d done.

I reappeared in the purple dress, one hand on my hip to cover the grass stain. “This is all I have.”

“It doesn’t matter what you wear,” he said, and he was far away, shaken up, lost. I was so mortified that my cheeks burned neon red all the way to the Mission, and I kept apologizing over and over.

“Let’s forget about it,” he said, taking my hand. “Please?”

His fingers were wrapped so strongly around mine that I had to wrench one hand away and pry them off. When he noticed the strength of his grip, he jumped. “Oh no,” he said, taking his hands back. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” I told him. “I know the difference. I know when it’s on purpose.”

Then he fell into me, burying his face in my neck, smelling my hair, whispering apologies that I didn’t need. I kissed him, there in the shadows of the trees that sighed and fluttered above the driveway. The lights draped across the deck grew brighter with each passing second; I saw the bonfire flickering, heard bluegrass music in the air, and everything was as I’d imagined. The summer heat, the fireflies, the streaks of orange light—the colors of golden peaches and ripe grapefruits, shades so bright you could taste them—that signaled the beginning of sunset.

We let go of each other and made our way to the party. One of the enormous round tables had been moved outside to the deck, overlooking the water, and set with the gold-and-black place cards. Candlewicks burned in erratic, sculpted lumps of wax, pooled in a delicate, oddly shaped ceramic dish. Someone had placed fresh wildflowers bound with clear fishing line at each setting of striped napkins and mismatched, tarnished silverware. I found my place card next to Tyler’s. Max was on my other side.

“No Charlie?” I asked.

Tyler, fully composed, shook his head. “Artists only,” he said, as though that was the only reason.