It took him an eternity to reply. “Are you one of them?”

“One of who?”

“The Carey Logan fans,” he said flatly, rolling his eyes. He was angry—and tense, visibly tense; it was fluttering from him in little ragged pulses.

“I don’t have to be,” I said carefully. I was going to follow it up with something about how I thought Yes, Carey was interesting, I mean, the work was technically very finished, and I’d been to several of her shows, and as another young woman artist who was compulsively prolific, she meant a lot to me, but in the ketamine reverb I forgot to speak.

Relief flooded across his face. The pulsing stopped. He said, “Thank God.”

“I liked some of the work, but not all of it,” I said, which was true. “Sorry. I mean. The sculptures are extraordinary. The performance work was less compelling. I don’t mean to be negative.”

“No,” he said. “I agree with you.”

“So you can be agreeable!” Charlie said, appearing in front of us in an absolutely spotless shawl-collar tuxedo, the bow tie and top buttons of his shirt undone. His polished shoes were smeared with wet grass. Without thinking, I leaned down to his feet, plucked a blade of grass, and put it on my tongue; it was slippery and cold.

“Hello,” he said to me, his voice warm. “I saw your hair from across the yard. I was so sorry to hear about your apartment.”

I put up a hand, and he pulled me upright. I blew the blade of grass at him and he stepped out of its way. Before he could kiss me hello, Tyler stood, and they were shaking hands.

“Nice to see you,” Charlie said, his voice shallow. It was obvious that he didn’t mean it.

“You too,” Tyler replied blankly.

I shifted my weight from foot to foot impatiently. “Can I have a drink?”

“I’ll get it,” they both said at once.

“Allow me. I’m on duty,” Charlie insisted. He managed to flag down a girl with a tray. I picked out a brown one in a round, silver-tipped glass.

“What are you doing with yourself?” I asked him, once we all had a drink in our hands.

“Managing an installation in an elevated park, rather like the High Line, in Macau. The artist is mainland Chinese—she’s from a place that actually translates to ‘Button City.’ Lu Liu is her name.”

“Oh.” That wasn’t what I meant. I meant more, What do you feel? In your life?

“You don’t like it.”

“You’re decorating a floating casino?” I said, trying to keep up. “Why? Don’t you have enough money?”

“We’re devoting ourselves to public space. It’s a first step.”

“Macau is the least public space I can think of,” I said slowly, trying to solve the puzzle.

“Nothing can ever be public,” Tyler interjected. “Nothing belongs to everyone.”