My eyes shoot to Garrett’s. I can’t give a hair sample! They’d know everything about me…

“You’re incredible,” he says, hugging Nicki. “How can I ever thank you?”

“It makes me happy to help,” she says. “No thanks needed.”

He releases her, holding her at arm’s length. “All the same, I’ll think of something. Let me surprise you.” I watch Garrett stare into her eyes, his lips curving up in a knowing smile, and she blushes, practically melting into him. She’s putty in his hands, and my stomach turns.

“How can I say no to a surprise?” she says. “I’ll let you.”

“Good.” Taking her left hand, he places his palm over the ring and squeezes. “I’ll have to think of something extra special.”

Behind us, Berkeley & the Brightside takes the stage. The crowd roars to life, and Joanna stands up and starts dancing on the table as they play the opening notes to their hit “Headshot.” With a whoop, Nicki joins her, but I wait, watching Garrett seamlessly slip the wax mold into the canister hidden in his pocket. I’ll fill the canister with liquid nitrogen and put it in the key fob when I change into my disguise, but the clock has already started. I need to move quickly and photograph Nicki’s ring before the wax melts. Climbing onto the table, I join Nicki and Joanna.

The band plays straight from the first song into the next, and I raise my lighter to Nicki in question.

Her face lights up, and she pops open the bracelet containing the herbs.

A few minutes later, she’s packed her pipe, and my heart stalls as she raises it to her lips with her right hand. I should have remembered she wears the ring on her left hand and smokes with her right! I can almost feel Garrett’s “expect the unexpected” stare boring into the back of my head. Thinking fast, I pretend to have trouble getting the flame to catch, cupping my free hand to block the nonexistent breeze.

“It’s kind of windy,” I yell over the music. “Can you help?” She lifts her left hand to shield the herbs, but what I need her to do is switch hands so I can get a good angle on the ring. I keep fiddling with the lighter, clicking away, figuring these photos will be better than nothing. “I actually think the breeze is coming from the other side. Maybe switch hands?”

“Why don’t I light it myself?” she asks.

“No!” I scream too loudly and too forcefully. “I mean…this lighter is vintage. It’s finicky. It’s better if I do it.”

“Why don’t I help?” Garrett asks, climbing onto the table.

“It’s okay. I’ve got it,” I say, brushing him off.

I’m not sure, because he says it so quietly, but I think I hear him mutter, “Stubborn.”