I watched as the bartender shrugged. “It’s just my preference,” he said in response to the stringy-haired dude, but it seemed he was looking directly at Celeste. “When my sister played the piano growing up, it bothered me so much I asked my mother to have it removed.”

“Did she?” Celeste asked, and I saw that she had stepped far enough into the circle that she had almost edged out the two other people. The bartender nodded.

“Fucking men!” the dancing woman said, throwing her hands up.

But Celeste reached toward the bartender and laid her hand on his arm. This was more than I could stand. “You’re sensitive,” she said.

My stomach twisted in a queasy way. I bit my tongue to keep from doing anything stupid. He’s mine! I wanted to yell. Mine! She didn’t even pay for this place! Anything that would break her spell over him. Anything that would make him, instead, see me. But I did nothing. I forced myself to continue staring as the stringy-haired guy, sensing defeat, walked away, jiggling his empty cup as an excuse; I wondered if the dancing girl would do the same. Celeste had removed her hand from the bartender’s arm, but there seemed to me something invisible and powerful linking them together. I took a sip of my drink—not enough—I finished it and crossed my arms and pinched the soft fold of flesh in the crook of my elbow—better—

I heard a squeal and turned to see Jojo, across the room, pushing through toward the door, where her boyfriend had just entered. He saw her and his face broke through with radiant joy. He was only half out of his jacket and let the free arm dangle as she jumped up and flung her arms around his neck; they kissed each other like they were food. It had only been a few days since they’d seen each other, by my count. What a display.

I was so caught up in watching them, it took me several moments to notice that Sam had come in behind Jojo’s boyfriend. He was scanning the crowd, maybe looking for me. He wore the same blue bomber jacket he’d worn last night, hands in the pockets, creases of fabric running up toward his shoulders, which filled out the jacket with a meaty substantivity. I felt a flush of desire, as if my body were being transported back to how I’d felt when I’d first seen him or something raw were peeking out from underneath everything else. He was handsome, his sandy-blond hair falling over his forehead, his masculine features set in a disarmed, boyish expression as his eyes moved over the room. But then he saw me and smiled, too happy, and the familiar disgust washed through me. Why was he here? I hadn’t replied to his texts; what kind of loser couldn’t take a hint? How had he even found out about this party? Had Jojo told him? I forced a smile as he pushed his way toward me through the crowd.