“Should I have talked about your PhD?”

“I never got one.”

“Don’t be modest, Conor. You have a pretty huge dick.”

A thoughtful stare. “You really are,” he muses, “a constant menace.”

“I try.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Nah. Wine’s too grapey. You?”

He shakes his head.

“What’s your excuse? You’re not one of us, the unwashed masses. You like wine. You have a refined palate. You pair shit, and…” I straighten, in utter disbelief that I missed this. “You’re not drinking.”

He glances around, as if to highlight the absence of a glass. “How observant of you.”

“No, not just right now. You no longer drink. I haven’t seen you take a sip of alcohol since you got here.”

His stare seems to ask: Do you want an award for noticing?

And yes, I do. Also wanted: answers. “But you weren’t…?”

“An alcoholic? No. I don’t think I was. But it got to be a bit much.”

“When?”

“A few months ago.”

My throat seizes. “About ten or so?”

A pause. He nods, silent, and I have to clench my fist. All I want in the world is permission to reach out and kiss him. I nearly do so, but he adds, “I figured it might be better to take a break. I never liked myself much when I drank, anyway. The things I said…They could be quite cruel.”

I can relate. There have been approximately ten thousand times in the last few years when I haven’t liked myself. Nine thousand and nine hundred of them, I was angry and said something unfair to someone who didn’t deserve it. “Do you miss it?”

“Hating myself, or drinking?”

“Either, I suppose.”

“I miss the alcohol…sometimes. Often, even. Not this week, though.”

“Why not?”

The look he gives me practically begs me to keep up. Come on, Maya. You know why. Use that top-recruit brain of yours.

“To make up for it, I still give myself plenty of opportunities for self-loathing.”

“Glad that’s taken care of. If you need any help…”

“Don’t worry, Maya. You remain the reigning queen of my regrets.”

A dull ache spreads through my bones. But he’s smiling, like he wants to turn this into banter, into our usual back-and-forth, and…

“Let’s dance,” I say. The music is faint, the balcony poorly lit, and I don’t think I’ve ever danced to slow music in my entire life. Still, I pull him closer.

“Maya, it’s not a good—”

But we’re already doing it. My arms are wrapped around his waist, and we’re swaying, and after a moment he’s holding me, too. Even tighter than I do him.

“Hi,” I say into his shirt.

“Hi, Trouble.” His lips find the top of my head. Linger. We’re barely moving—this is not dancing, this is a hug. But I can pretend, if that’s what he needs.

I bury my face in his chest, and say, “Thank you for today. With Eli.”

“You’re welcome.” His hand caresses my hair. “You’d have both calmed down on your own, eventually.”