Oscar was sitting on my stoop when I made it down the street from Jules’s. He stood, seeing me, and dawn broke over his face.

I glanced at my electric-green dress and new high heels. “Do you like it?”

He stood still, hands calm at his sides. “You’re perfect.”

I let out a white-hot breath of a laugh.

Tonight was a good idea. Being brave, showing up—it was the right call.

I turned, searching the street for a taxi, but Oscar pointed to a familiar black Bentley heading our way.

“Oh my gosh, that is so—” I started to say, as Oscar explained:

“Ms. Visser’s loaned it to me while your dad’s gone. I have this frenetic schedule right now, so the driver stays on top of where I need to go.”

“Oh, that’s helpful.” I nodded, thrown for no good reason. Of course he had a rapport with Nora—even if he did still call her Ms. Visser.

Oscar held the door for me, then slid in with a “Hey, Jerry!” to the driver. They chitchatted the whole way, Oscar feigning interest in local sports teams while stealing glances over his shoulder that betrayed how clueless he was. I tried not to laugh.

And then I saw it ahead—Corinthian columns up-lit in blue.

18.

the Wing Club used to be a stuffy place. I remembered exploring all the empty rooms at functions I went to as a kid, cringing at the musty smell that pervaded the place, a mix of mildew and quinine and elderly folks. But apparently, after a renovation last year, it was the hot place to be seen if you were young and moneyed in Manhattan. And wherever there was money, there were fundraisers.

A guy in a suit and a jaunty cap opened our car door for us as we pulled up outside the blue-lit building. Oscar motioned for me to go in ahead of him, all courtesy—but glancing back, I wondered if there was more to it. He looked knotted up, walking like his shoes were too tight.

My shoes were tight too, but I plastered on my event face and made it up the stairs past the empty dining room, hearing a peal of laughter and low music issuing from a golden-lit room down the dark-oak hall.

It’s just a party.

“Ready?” My voice shook.

“See, that’s an interesting question.” His smile looked locked in place. “It implies prep, and now I’m wondering if there was a workshop I missed. Intro to Schmoozing?”

I glanced behind us at a few tempting doorways. “Want to explore?”

I was referencing the Egyptian Wing, but he grinned like I’d made an innuendo.

“I’ve been here before,” I whispered, taking his hand. “When I was peak cuteness, they would bring me along and sit me at the piano with my mom, and the donors would go crazy.”

“You’re peak cuteness now,” he whispered back.