“Who is Edward?” I ask, a question that seems to open a Pandora’s box of myth and nonsense. Edward is an aging matador, an American billionaire, an exiled British lord. It quickly becomes clear that my new friends have no idea who Edward is, but they do appear to have his home address. This is all a very dubious plan, but following them still feels like a better option than going home alone. And one of them—Santiago, I believe—is actually pretty cute. And he’s sure to become more so the drunker I get, and what is New Year’s Eve for but alcohol and bad decisions? What is there to stay sober for?

Santiago (I think) takes my hand as we walk the several blocks to Edward’s alleged home. Okay! Santiago, mine for the moment. The sun has just gone down and around us people are dressed up and headed out into the night. There’s a teeming sense of revelry in every direction, a liveliness I’ve been missing this past week. Alberto (I think) studies the piece of paper in his hand, seemingly annoyed that his friend is more interested in flirting than helping him find the place. The houses on the block are large and elegant, their numbers tastefully obscured. The boy hanging off of me is the one with the better English, and as we walk he asks me questions and I tell him a swift river of lies starting with the fake name, that I’m from Texas and a recently retired rodeo cowgirl. Really? Sure. Why not?

At last, Alberto seems to have found where we’re going.

“Jeez Louise,” I say, taking in the breathtaking town house with its ivy-covered facade. “This is it?”

The boys go into hysterics over “jeez Louise,” but after a moment, Alberto checks the address and confirms. He rings the bell and a moment later, a man—much younger than I expected the mysterious Edward to be—answers the door.

Suddenly my boisterous companions have fallen silent, as though they’re little boys waiting for their mother to speak for them. Christ.

“Hi,” I say, “Edward? We were told”—mortifyingly, the man seems content to let me finish my sentence—“to come to the party,” I manage.

“I’m not Edward.” He smiles as though the very idea is hilarious. “But you’re in the right place. Come with me.”