“There’s someone here I need to see,” he says, tossing the chocolate again, then cuts me a look I can’t quite parse. “Believe me, I had no idea you’d be here.”

To be fair, right up until I quit modeling last month, I had no idea I’d be here either. If I hadn’t quit, the chances are that I would have had to cancel last minute, and one of my parents would’ve also had to miss out on the wedding just to drive me to some shoot on the other side of LA. But now I have no reason to miss out on any family functions, not when my current summer schedule mostly involves me crawling out of bed at noon, making myself spicy ramen for breakfast at lunchtime, and watching celebrity documentaries to avoid my looming college application deadlines.

“Sorry to disappoint,” I mutter.

“What is life if not disappointing?” he says, just dryly enough that I can’t tell if he’s joking or making a genuine, depressing statement.

“Well,” I say, crossing my ankles together under the table to keep from fidgeting or kicking something, “don’t let me ruin your enjoyment of one of the greatest joys in the world.”

“Free drinks?”

“I meant the wedding.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t enjoy it much anyway.” He makes a general gesture toward the overhanging red tassels and fake, gold-foil trees and confetti balloons floating around the ballroom. “I find these overt displays of love to be somewhat nauseating.”

I must be staring, because he lifts his brows.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“You’ve changed,” I can’t help observing aloud.

His expression flickers, but he merely tosses the chocolate again. “How so?”

I study him. It’s hard for me to pinpoint myself—whether it’s the alertness in his eyes, despite the insouciance of his posture; the slight pause after each sentence, as if he’s assessing my immediate reaction; or even the way he’s dressed, his simple button-down so crisp it must be freshly ironed.

But I remember him as the boy who would smile all the time, though it was always a crooked smile, the type that assured you he was up to no good. He was also the one who’d make sure he was sitting behind me in every class, just so he could tap my seat and annoy me. Who’d pester me during quiet reading sessions and pretend to be busy working when the teacher glared in our direction. Who’d steal my pencils. My homemade snacks. My scrunchies. My science homework, which is how I confirmed that he was stealing for the sole pleasure of stealing from me, because my grades were far worse than his.

He was the monster who left a real, live, buzzing bee inside my locker on Valentine’s Day when all the other girls were opening theirs up to find flowers.