I adjust my tie in the reflection of the window. Outside, the darkness is interrupted only by a few ambient yellow lampposts among the palm trees.

I hate how quiet it is here sometimes.

“Can you put on some music?” I ask the driver. He nods and reaches for the radio dial. We listen to the repetitive bass of Top 40 hits the entire way there.

The car pulls onto the still relatively quiet drive of the country club, toward the large stone building nestled among the dark green hills of the golf course. I watch out the window as the people in the limo a few cars in front of us step out. The next guest has driven himself to the fundraiser, albeit in a Tesla. As he leans over to shake the valet’s hand and give him the keys, I just barely catch his profile. He looks familiar, but I can’t place whether I know those features from a past Forbes’s list or some party my parents threw years ago. Maybe both.

We step into the night, but it’s basically the same temperature as the air-conditioned car. Later the temperature will drop just enough to prove the seasons change, at least somewhat, here. But with the sun having set only an hour ago, the heat still clings to the earth.

I hold out my arm to help Sara out of the car. I smile as we step into the light of the doorway and the white noise of other people’s conversations. The uneasiness in the pit of my stomach dissipates. It may not be as easy or seamless as I’d like to sit in a car alone with Sara, but walking in here with a girl like this on my arm—and knowing that, when my parents’ friends ask, they will be pleasantly surprised to learn she also brings a brain and, soon enough, a world-class degree to the table—makes it all worth it.

“It’s so pretty,” Sara leans in and says to me.

I just nod. Honestly, I’ve been so busy watching the other guests watching her I haven’t noticed much about the room. I glance around now. The ceiling of exposed wood beams coupled with the glittering candles that make up most of the light in the room give it a warm feel. Throw in the choice of lilies as centerpieces, and it’s a little bit Pinterest wedding for my taste. But these sorts of events are always a bit like that on this coast. I would prefer to be at the Plaza anytime.

“Let’s get a drink,” I say.

I flag down a waiter walking around with half-filled flutes of champagne and swipe two off his tray with confidence.

“Is that okay?” Sara asks, taking hers reluctantly. “Like, half these people work for the government,” she says out of the side of her mouth.