I began to answer. My therapist and I had our theories about this, after all, but we were dancing, and he was saying such nice things, and it made me wonder—“Is this you asking as my friend, or as a journalist?”

The band switched melodies. The lead singer, no longer in soul mode, brought out a tambourine and ordered us to put our hands together for, horror upon horror, the YMCA.

Atlas let his arms drop from around me. “No, Daisy. Do you think I would be that smarmy?”

“Sorry. My father told me to always assume I was on the record.” Couples and groups gyrated around us. YOUNG MAN. I had to raise my voice. “He said there were always people listening, ready to get you.”

“That piece of advice was singularly cynical. You think I would put you on record without saying so?” He talked quickly, irritated. “Or that—worse—I’d trick you into saying something about your father, after you told me you weren’t sure you wanted to be interviewed?”

He was right; being at this wedding had caused my lingering feelings of paranoia to swell, and it really wasn’t a good look. “I didn’t mean to question your character,” I said. “I’m sorry, Atlas. Look, I’ll prove it.” When the chorus came, I did the letters, and really sold it, pretending I had pom-poms, even marched in place with gusto. It was cheesy and embarrassing, but it made Atlas crack a smile, and had me thankful for the song for the first time in my life.

His phone vibrated in his suit jacket, interrupting whatever moment we were having. “Sorry, again.” He looked at the screen, eyes not quite meeting mine. “I have to answer.”

I needed a break from the trumpets and twisting bodies on the dance floor, so I followed him as he weaved between tables and out onto the terrace. I stood beneath a space heater and tried not to stare as he paced, sounding at times placating, at others annoyed. I could’ve given him more privacy, I suppose. But tonight, emboldened by surviving the public exposure, by the champagne bubbles in my head, I felt possessive, and even one room’s distance between us was too much.

He hung up and rubbed his hands through his hair like he was trying to shake something out of it, then spotted me and drew near. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” The heater was pulsing out warmth, but I gathered my pashmina tighter around me, feeling suddenly nervous. “Is everything all right?”

It was dim on the balcony, but in the glow from the party and the lights below on Lafayette Square, I could see his troubled eyes as he peered at me. “You know, you said you were okay with me writing about your father, but are you really?”