Tucker wraps a towel around his waist and them shimmies out of his wet jeans underneath before kicking them into the grass. He catches me watching him. “What? You were on me for running in jeans last night and now you’re judging me for stripping down,” he says. “You gotta get those off.”

“Um . . .” Well, yes, he is right. My legs feel like two drowning sausage links. “I need to find the bathroom.”

“I’ll wait for you in the living room,” he says.

Inside, I search the whole downstairs for a closet or a room that might have something I can temporarily clothe myself with. The bathroom is locked. The guest bedroom is being used by two mystery people rolling under the blankets, so my last resort without going upstairs is Kyle’s parents’ bedroom.

I open the door to find a random girl crying into a phone. “Get out!” she screams, and continues to sob.

“Sorry, sorry, need the bathroom.”

She throws a pillow at me and nearly pegs me in the head, but I duck into the bathroom just in time.

Inside the bathroom, I see the reality of my situation. Wet dog times ten. I wish I could be like the kids in the movie who go swimming at parties and walk around in oversized T-shirts or traipse around in their underwear. But I’m not there yet. I don’t know if I ever will be.

But I do like the idea of saying yes, like Tucker said. Waylon two weeks ago wouldn’t even be at this party, let alone stay after going for a fully clothed swim.

My pink T-shirt that reads ON WEDNESDAYS WE WEAR PINK is something I like to think of as a crossroads between New Waylon and Old Waylon. It definitely says something about me, but it’s also inconspicuous enough to go unnoticed. Either way, it is soaked through, and as I feared, you can see everything. But for some reason, the sense of dread I was expecting is lacking.

There’s so much I need to think about and mentally digest, but right now I need a costume change.

Swinging open Kyle’s parents’ closet in their master bathroom, I quietly say, “Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Meeks.”

It turns out that Kyle’s dad’s clothes are too small and Kyle’s mom’s clothes are . . . well, they fit, but they’re not what I would call the kind of statement I’m looking to make.

I settle on a teal floral pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that reads MY SON IS AN HONOR ROLL STUDENT AT CLOVER CITY ELEMENTARY. I give myself a quick look in the mirror, and say to no one but myself in the deepest southern accent I can manage, “Kyle, come hug your mother.” That makes even me laugh. Or maybe I’m a little drunk. Can you get drunk off one beer?