Brandon reached out his hand, the bruised one, and rubbed the sweat from his glass across my knuckles. At his touch, tears came to my eyes. He slid out of the booth and sat next to me. I leaned against him, and he held me. He looked tired, his forehead marked by fine wrinkles, like pencil lines that had been erased. We sipped our margaritas, huddled together, stunned by grief.

“What time is it?” he said.

“Seven,” I said, glancing at my phone.

“Fucking happy hour’s over,” he said. “Let’s go to my place.” He rose and tossed a bill on the table, downed the rest of his drink standing up.

He lived six blocks away, on the other side of Main, in a neighborhood of bungalows across from a park. The dog walkers were out, still dressed for the office, carrying plastic bags of poop. I parked my car behind his on the street. He had the whole place to himself, a two-bedroom, cute, painted blue. The arched front door led into a living room/dining room decorated with a combination of Ikea and thrift-store furniture.

“Sit down,” he said. “Be right back.”

He walked past the large table to the kitchen and returned with his arms full: a bong, a ceramic plate, and two glasses filled with ice and vodka.

He sat beside me and reached under the coffee table for a box. He rummaged through its contents and laid out a pill bottle, a razor blade, a straw, and a tiny bag of white powder.

“What is that?” I said.

“Special K,” he said. “Ever done it?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

He opened the pill bottle, full of buds, and loaded the bong. He pushed it in front of me. I fished a lighter from my pocket.

“Since Danielle died, I can’t be sober,” he said.

“I know what you mean,” I said.

I tucked my hair behind my ears and leaned over the bong. I had to use my hand to seal the wide opening. Brandon smashed the powder on the plate and formed lines. The high built gently as my body began to sense itself. The room grew cozy. I kicked off my shoes and sat cross-legged on the couch, facing him while he smoked.

“Do you ever get tired of sex?” I asked. “Filming it all day?”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “Never. I think about it all the fucking time.”

I laughed. “What was she like, in bed?”

“Playful. Sweet.”

“Like how?”

“When we fucked, she smiled at me, touched my face. Like there was no one she’d rather be with.”

I nodded. I knew that, how she could make you feel that way.

“It was nice,” he said, “but she was always removed from it. She never let go, never got naked. That’s not what I like the best. I like sex to be . . . desperate. To fuck . . .”

“Like it matters,” I said. “Like you have to.”