We had about thirty-five hours left in Charleston. Telling Wallis about our tuition and her ex—current?—boyfriend maybe running for Senate would take a wrecking ball to her weekend and fell whatever hopes Bo had for an enjoyable time at his sister’s party with family he didn’t see often. I wouldn’t do that to him. I agreed to keep everything to myself until we got back to DC. A day and a half was nothing. I’d held the secret of my kiss with Atlas for much longer than that.

When we returned to the Reed manor for a rest after our day out, I was relieved. With Wallis leaking her sour mood all over our lunch of pork nachos and beer, and checking her phone every six seconds, it had taken infinitely more effort for me to pretend all was well.

This trip was supposed to have been a way for me to escape DC and all its machinations. I hadn’t been that fortunate. But the day was almost over, and while I would never admit this to Wallis, it thankfully appeared she wouldn’t see Blake this weekend after all.

Wallis, though, was now showing signs of hope once again. She showered for the second time that day, curled her hair, and put on a black dress, long sleeved and short skirted, low neckline displaying the ridges of her clavicle. If only my unrequited love burned calories, I thought, I wouldn’t have to wear compression underwear.

The engagement party was less than a half mile south of the Reeds’, below Broad Street. In the walled garden of the grand antebellum house, flagstone paths looped around formal boxwoods shaped like globes and cones. There was a small tent at one end where waiters in white and black served pisco sours and bourbon. There was champagne, too, the fancy type, and Bo was kind enough to fetch us glasses. In the meantime, we introduced ourselves to the hosts, who were standing by the reflecting pool. They were gracious, but only to a point; going inside the main house was not allowed, they told us with a smile. The bathroom for guests, they said, was inside the carriage house. They’re come-heya folks, Bo said, rolling his eyes.

As a jazz trio took up on the porch, Bo led us around, introducing us to family and friends we hadn’t met the night before. I did my best to follow the small talk, to ask all the right questions, to maintain the look of polite interest, but my mind kept slipping back to what Atlas had texted me that morning. It didn’t help that the unfolding celebration reminded me so much of the showers, anniversary fetes, fundraisers my parents once threw at P. Cricket used to joke that my father would pop champagne when someone finished a crossword puzzle.