Serena pulled me forward and waved the photographer over to us. She angled herself next to me, chin tilted to the right, hips jutting toward the camera, elbow crooked just so. I made the same face I always do. I had decided in middle school that smiling made me look ridiculous in photos, and so I avoided it at all costs the second a camera rolled around. After a few shots together, she slid away from me and twisted her body in the opposite direction. “Derek, I need one for Insta,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Arms in the sky, right leg kicked up behind her, she smiled widely and held herself there for what felt like a minute, a crane posed silently on the edge of water. It was the same pose she’d done last week in the park, her “SerenaStyle” formation. It was supposed to be this happy, joyful pose, but something about it was stiff and planned, the opposite of spontaneous. It made me think back to Franny and her Italian ice, and the way she hadn’t cared at all when it spilled on her.

After a round of flashes, Serena came to life again and approached the photographer.

“Can you text those to me?” she asked as I lingered awkwardly a few feet away in front of the photo wall, examining the brands that had sponsored this birthday party. A vodka company I recognized, a dating app. Some CBD brand specifically for women.

Photos acquired minutes later, Serena grabbed my arm again, leading me into the actual party. The music competed with conversations shouted over passed glasses of champagne. In the corner, a pair of tattooed women stitched people’s names onto hooded sweatshirts, the party favor of the evening. There seemed to be a cotton-candy machine somewhere, judging by the amount of people eating it, which was competing with hand-rolled sushi as the meal of the night.

The last birthday party I’d been to had been an intimate gathering on the patio of Eleanor’s favorite vegan restaurant in the West Village. This felt like a prom.

Yet Serena moved effortlessly through the room, introducing me to people, touching my arm constantly, including me in conversations, talking me up. I got the feeling she was showing me off. It was something that should have stroked my ego, made me feel good. But nothing revved inside me.

“This is Dominique!”

“Hayes runs one of the most important environmental finance firms in the city!”

“We interned together at Vogue!”

“The Wall Street Journal did a whole profile on him!”

“Can you believe she’s only twenty-two and already shooting in Paris?”

“Yeah, we ran the whole Central Park loop together. It was so fun!”