“Let’s go home and get you a—” I stopped when I heard a rustling from the crowd. I turned and saw electricity run through the groups, like a lightning bolt moving horizontally, pinging each person.

I grabbed Emily’s hand and placed it on her knee. “Put pressure on it for a second.” I stood up, her blood streaking my palm, and craned my neck to see what the commotion was about.

The crowd was parting slightly, like royalty was entering a ballroom. The catalyst was a short woman, long hair cascading down her back in perfect beachy waves. She had on red lipstick and gold sparkly earrings that brushed her shoulders. She wore a short, strapless romper with white four-inch heels. Her skin was the color of honey, with patches of highlighter accentuating her shoulders and cheekbones.

It took me a moment to register who it was.

It was Liz. Hangover or flu apparently gone.

She surveyed the crowd coolly, her hair fluttering in the breeze behind her like Beyoncé with a wind machine. Her kids trailed her, with Tim bringing up the rear, his attention on his phone, nonplussed by his wife’s transformation from someone who booked yearly Disney World vacations (complete with a social media picture of the MagicBands the day they arrived in the mail) and bought specialty s’mores sticks for the backyard firepit.

I caught Melissa’s eye as she slowly turned toward me, mouth agape. I shook my head slightly and looked over to Jess, who had emerged from her house and was standing barefoot on her front porch, portable speaker in one hand, giant bottle of vodka in the other. She wasn’t actively working against Heather’s first assessment of her, something I respected. Jess was always herself, no matter what the situation.

She laughed. “Yes, Liz! Looking good, friend!” she shouted over the top of the crowd with guttural admiration.

Liz slowly craned her neck toward Jess, squinting in her direction as though trying to figure out who she was. Then her face broke into a smile, and she gave a quick wave to Jess before sauntering to the card table bar.

She picked up a pale pink bottle of rosé and wrinkled her nose at it before she put it back down on the table. I tipped my head to the side in confusion. That bottle was at least twice as good as the wine from her house the other night, and she was acting like it was poison.