I push on the balcony door handles fully expecting they’d be locked. But they pop down with ease and the warm summer wind hits me in the face. I grab the railing, close my eyes and suck in that city air.

I don’t breathe enough. Not like this, deep and alone. I have to admit that being Benji’s girlfriend sometimes feels like sitting in the passenger seat as he drives 110 miles per hour on the freeway in a jalopy with no seat belts. It’s easy to get overwhelmed, but I remind myself that Benji came into my life for a reason. Every douchey, going-nowhere guy I dated before him was worth it because they led me to him: a beautiful genius who knows exactly who he is and what he wants. A guy with talent, charisma and nothing but pure adoration for me. So what if he had a flawed start? All that matters is that I stopped the top from spinning out of control and now we’re good. We’re really fucking good.

Just then my phone, which I have stashed in my bra (hey, no pockets, okay?), buzzes with a text. I dig around in my cleavage and read the message from Benji.

2-top off elevator. It’s time, babe.

My feet are aching and I’m sweating, but as far as everyone can tell by the smile on my face, I’m having a grand old time filling water glasses. By now, we’re more than halfway through the service, and so far, Benji’s only used the bottle of bourbon in the back for a caramel-y glaze on the dessert course, not to ease the kitchen chaos. In fact, in the ten or so times I’ve popped my head in to check on him, he appeared to be keeping his cool entirely.

“And how are you two enjoying your evening?” I say, hovering over a couple at a round-top table I haven’t checked on yet.

“There she is.” My dad wipes his mouth as he stands up to give me a hug. My god, he’s wearing a wool suit and a silk tie. Overdress much?

“What do you think of the food?” I ask.

“It’s outstanding, Allie. Say, can we get another one of those sriracha Jell-O cubes?”

“Goodness, Bill, don’t embarrass me like that. Just ignore him, Allie. Although, yes, the sriracha cube was...” My mom, Patty, closes her eyes, puckers her lips and explodes an air-kiss off the tips of her fingers. I think that’s mom code for amaze-balls.

“I’m really glad you guys could make it,” I say. And I mean that. It’s not easy to accept the fact that your daughter is dating the most talked-about, tattooed chef in the Midwest, let alone show your support by attending a BYOB makeshift dinner party on the far North Side.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. And, hey, I couldn’t figure out how to get the flash on this dang iPhone to work, but I took a bunch of pictures,” my dad says. “You’ll have to explain later how I’m supposed to send them to you.”