“Jesus Christ, Paul, do you pay attention to anything besides what restaurant we’re going to next?” She shout-whispered, struggling to feel righteous in the terry cloth robe he was paying for. “It’s Danial’s firm. The one we produced a video about. You know, my job, making videos for political candidates.” She allowed her confused anger at the privilege she’d been surrounded by for days to point itself like a laser at her best friend. “Those guys in suits that people vote for.”

“Hey, what the fuck?” he countered, leaning away from her harshness. “Why are you mad at me?”

“Because…” The tears had slipped from her eyes again, forming little rivers down her face and betraying the depth of her fury. “Because I was doing so well. And you did everything in your power to make us hook up because you find us so fucking entertaining, and now look.”

“Hey,” he started, sliding down to the foot of the bed to sit cross-legged in front of her, “I hear you, but why didn’t you tell me you were planning to make a video about his company?”

She heard a laugh escape her, manic with frustration.

“I did tell you, when we jumped off the boat. You just weren’t listening.”

“Well, no, I was—I just didn’t understand how serious it was. Clearly.”

“Because nothing is serious to you.”

“Alex,” he snapped back, “I want to talk to you, but I’m not going to let you sit here and insult me.”

She had never heard this tone from him before, not even the night of their breakup sophomore year.

“And this is my bachelor party,” he continued, dropping his voice at the sound of people outside the door. “I’m allowed to have fun. I thought you were having fun, too. Your mom even sent me a text about how happy you seemed.”

“I was,” she sniffed, bringing her hand to her exposed collarbone at the thought of her mother.

The necklace.

“I’m sorry to bother you.” Forty-five minutes later and as composed as she could make herself, Alex stood at Danial’s door. She pushed out her words quickly and quietly, almost recoiling at the darkness in his expression. “I just need my necklace.”

“You need your necklace,” he repeated, dryly. He had just showered for dinner, ink-black hair freshly combed behind his ears. The fine angles of his face looked like wet stone under his moisturizer.

“Yes, you took it last night.”

“You gave it to me.”

“I did.” He stood in the doorway, appraising her momentarily. She chose her words carefully, focusing on the abstract ethics beyond her personal betrayal. “And, I’m sorry. The party has been working on a video about Horace for a while, and I tried to edit—”

“It’s fine.” He moved out of the way, gesturing with his arm to allow her into the room and closing the door behind her.