I give up on sleeping and get dressed. I aimlessly wander around my apartment, too listless to be productive but too wired to do nothing. I can’t even focus long enough to play Rule Them All. Instead, I sit on my couch and count my movies. Fifty-six. I run updates on my computer. I take out my trash. I’m having a heated internal debate between organizing my sock drawer and cleaning my oven, two things I’ve never done in my life, when my father calls.

“Good morning, Beth. I was expecting to get your voicemail this early.” He almost sounds disappointed that I picked up the phone.

“I was up early this morning,” I explain myself cryptically, avoiding the mention of my sleepover with Austin. “How are things?”

“Fine. Fine. I wanted to remind you about the dinner this weekend.”

“Dinner?”

“Beth,” he says my name like an admonishment. Two minutes into this conversation and I’m already in trouble for not remembering some dinner. “We are hosting a dinner party for family, friends and a select group of business associates. Better to get these things out of the way before the holiday season is here and everyone’s schedules become impossible to coordinate.”

I hate how he says ‘we’, as if I have any interest in this stupid party.

“Right. That dinner.” I roll my eyes, but try to keep the derision out of my voice. I hate going to these things. My mother used to be all about them. It was like we were gearing up to host the Queen of England with the way she obsessed over the smallest detail.

I always feel like one more decoration, and not anyone’s favorite at that. I get dressed up, stand around awkwardly and try to make pleasant small talk. Most of the night consists of plastering on a fake smile while my extended family and my father’s friends make condescending remarks about me. It’s about as much fun as being the assistant to a novice knife thrower.

“I expect you both to be here early. Cocktail hour will commence promptly at six-thirty.”

I hold back the sigh perched in the back of my throat.

Wait, did he say both?

Both who? He can’t mean Austin.

“Wait, both of us who?”

“You and Austin, of course, dear. Are you feeling all right?”

Nope. Nuh-uh. No way. Not happening. Negative ghost rider, the pattern is full. Ix-nay on the arty-pay. Hell will freeze over before I take Austin to my father’s dinner party. Even if I could convince Austin to come with me—and that is one hell of a big if—the last thing I need is him in a room full of my pompous family.

“Sorry, but I don’t think Austin is going to be able to make it.”

“Oh, and why is that?”