She leans in close and whispers, “Have you talked to him?”

“Nope,” I say, pulling all my hair in front of my face.

She understands the topic is a no-go. “If you want a drink, Seth set up a bar in the dining room. He’s a mixologist. That’s what he’s been calling himself. He gives me these crazy cocktails to try. Can’t complain!”

I say a quick hello to Ash’s parents before slipping into the dining room, where Mia sits chatting with Seth, eating olives off a toothpick.

“Rory! Please tell me you don’t hate me,” she says, reaching out for me. Her acrylics are a festive red, color-coordinated with her dress. She reeks of that gardenia perfume.

“Course not,” I say, cutting her off before she can bring up Ian. “Sorry. I smashed my phone. Haven’t had a chance to get a new one.”

“Damn. I can’t last five minutes without my phone. Good for you,” she says. “Seth, Rory needs a drink.”

“Rory,” he says, pretending to be happy to see me. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas. What are we drinking?”

“Rosemary martinis,” he says.

“Fancy,” I tell him. “Mixologist over here.”

He blushes. “It’s a hobby.”

“I have an amazing champagne cocktail recipe if you’re interested,” Mia says, stabbing another olive with her toothpick. “Would be great for the New Year’s party. You’re coming, right, Rory?”

Ash and Seth host an annual New Year’s Eve party. I’m usually back in the city by then and don’t get to go, but I’m around this year with nothing else to do.

Seth gets somber. His shoulders tense; his mouth straightens. He avoids eye contact.

“What?” I ask. “Am I not invited?”

“You’re welcome to come,” he says. “But, uh, I invited Ian.”

“So?” I say, feigning indifference.

“I don’t know,” he says, flustered. “I just figured you’d want a heads-up. Ash said . . .”

“It’s fine,” I say, finishing my martini in a single gulp. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Let’s go smoke,” Mia says, finding my wrist.

It’s healed since the bracelet ordeal, but for some reason her touch summons an unpleasant sensation. A zombie ache.

We wander out past the army of inflatables. She kicks off her heels and sits on the stone wall that separates the driveway from the neighbor’s yard.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask her.

“A ho never gets cold,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She digs a cigarette out of her clutch. “Only have one left. Share?”

“Sure.”

“Look at me, a modern little match girl,” she says, thumbing her Bic. It takes a few tries to get the flame. “Sad orphan with nowhere else to go on Christmas. Where’s your mom, by the way? We chatted at the shower.”

“She’s coming up when Scarlett has the baby.”

“Ah,” she says, nodding. She shimmers. Her hair, her skin, her eyes, all reflect the thousands of blinking holiday lights that surround us. “Are you good with her? Your mom?”

I take the cigarette for a drag. “Yeah. Why?”