“So,” a voice says from the staircase.

Conor turns toward it first, but it’s Minami who asks, “Tamryn, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. My body rejecting every sip of water I take qualifies as okay, right?” She climbs down to the last step, long legs pale against the purple shorts of her pajamas.

“Fucking Axel,” Conor sighs.

“I’ve been thinking along those lines, too.” Her words fall with the same cadence as Conor’s. Musical. Rising. Dropped g’s. “Did the doctor happen to leave any drugs behind? I told him I wouldn’t need it, but I’m in the grip of a very strong bout of regret.”

“He did. Pills, for the nausea.”

“Thank Christ. Do you think I could have three or more?” I watch her cock her hip against the railing. Her r’s roll, sinuous. She looks freshly showered, skin scrubbed clean and hair damp around her shoulders.

“However many you want, Tam.”

“Unfortunately, I also had about a gallon of wine, which means that I’m still wasted and a bit woozy, and—” I’m the closest to her, and when she wavers on her feet, looking as though she might fall on her face, I sprint out of my seat to put my arm around her waist.

Conor and Minami get there about a second later.

“You sure you’re doing okay?” I ask. Her skin is hot, even through the jersey of her top.

“Yes. No. Now that I think about it, I may have puked out a vital organ.”

“The drugs will help with that,” Conor says.

Tamryn nods, in no hurry to start back up the stairs.

“You’re so…” she starts, staring down at me. She must be nearly six feet, taller even than Rue. “Maya, right? You’re not like Conor described.”

She’s the first person I met who calls him Conor. Besides me, that is. “Please, don’t elaborate on that.”

“Why?”

“Can’t be flattering.”

She laughs like she’s highly familiar with the brand of insults Conor likes to deliver. Eli’s little sister. Has all the charm and maturity of a boy getting his first newspaper route. Did one nice thing for her, and she latched on to me like I’m a teat that yields chocolate milk. No good deed left unpunished.

“You’re very pretty,” she tells me. Which is like getting hit with a piñata stick over the head. Clearly no ill is intended, but there’s something patronizing about being called pretty by someone who looks like she came straight out of Instagram.

“Let’s get you to bed,” I say with my steadiest smile, and I’m not sure how it happens that her arm slips around my shoulders for support. From up close, she’s not as young as I originally thought.

“I can take you to bed, Tam,” Conor tells her.

“Oh, I know. You’ve done it plenty of times.” She winks at him. “But I’m hanging out with my new friend Maya. What’s it like? Being an enfant prodige?”

There’s a lump in my throat. “I guess I wouldn’t know, since I’m neither.”