“What do you want to be when you grow up, Gracie?” William asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied, letting the cold water flow over my bare feet, tickling and cooling my toes. “I just know I don’t want to be an artist.” At a young age, I’d learned that their lives were difficult. I saw my parents struggle and fight about money constantly. I saw the narcissistic people they surrounded themselves with, often drunk and spewing their own praises.

The stranger cleared his throat, and I was returned to the present moment.

“Sorry. What was the question?”

“What do you do?” he repeated, more intently.

“Oh, I’m in school right now.”

“Ah, university, the golden years. The years of nourishing the eager, young, malleable mind.” He gazed to the distance, perhaps remembering a time when his shirt actually fit him. “What I wouldn’t do to go back.”

I smiled before chugging the rest of my drink.

“What are you studying?”

“Joint major. Folklore and literature.”

“Hm,” the man leaned in eagerly. “What is folklore?”

I inhaled in preparation for my rehearsed response. “Folklorists are like historians, except they study the stories of everyday people. The ones who didn’t make it into the history books.”

“Interesting. I love history,” the man replied, picking something from his teeth with this thumbnail. “What’s your favourite part of folklore?”

He pulled a wet blob from his teeth and sucked it from his thumb.

I tried to hide my disgust, swallowing a nearly audible retch. “My area of specialization is supernatural folklore and superstitions. Ghost stories, urban legends, faerie lore, that sort of thing.”

“That sounds fascinating.”

I had drunk too many glasses of wine and was starting to feel lightheaded. I hadn’t seen Jack in ages, and this sweaty man was getting on my last nerve.

“Will you excuse me?” I scanned the room for the exit. “I need some fresh air.”

“Of course.” He stepped aside.

I pushed my way through the crowd to the back door, grabbing two shots of whiskey and sliding the patio door open using my shoulder. I stepped outside, downed one of the shots, and balanced both glasses on the rail. I dug in my purse for a cigarette.

“Ah-ha, there you are.” I pulled one from the pack and placed it in my mouth, sparking the lighter. I held the cigarette with my teeth and pulled a plastic baggie from my bra, dumping a line of powder onto the back of my hand. I brought my hand to my nose and snorted it up with one swift inhale.

The backyard was lit with floodlights, and beautifully landscaped with a nod to Parisian decor. Shrubbery was strategically planted on the outskirts of flowerbeds, all to draw attention to the focal point: a giant frog-shaped fountain with extended frog legs, as if it were about to launch into the air, water spouting from its mouth. I laughed at how ridiculous it all was, snatched the second whiskey shot from its perch, and tossed it back.