We hug. She smells of perfume, a scent I can’t place. Her embrace shakes my arm so the cheap sparkling wine sloshes from my glass.

“Whoopsy.” Lisa’s laugh is raucous and reminds me of why we used to be such good friends when we were children. “Don’t want to waste the bubbly. Such as it is. How long has it been since I’ve seen you, anyway? Are you still living in your old house?”

When my parents decided to move to Florida and offered the house to my brother Jonathan and me, I’d been the one to accept it, while he took the cash they offered instead. At the time, I’d thought I was getting the better bargain. Real estate always goes up in value, doesn’t it? At twenty-three, I hadn’t understood what a burden owning a house can be, how refinancing to put cash in your pocket ties you financially to a bunch of brick and wood and glass, how the choices you make inside its walls can turn a home into a prison.

“Yep. Still there. How about you? Are you still over on …?” I don’t remember where she was living the last time we spoke. Honestly, I can’t recall when we last spoke.

She picks up when I trail away. “No, no. I moved over to a condo in Lincoln Park. Near the Fraze Pavilion. Loud as hell over there, between the concerts and the freaking high school football. But I’m too lazy to find another place. And since it’s just me …”

Lisa’s the one who trails away this time, but with an expectant look, as though I’m meant to fill in the blank she’s deliberately leaving. When I don’t speak up, she continues. “You know we only live a few streets away from each other. Why don’t we ever hang out?”

“Oh, you know,” I tell her with a wave of my hand. “Life stuff.”

“It shouldn’t take a class reunion to get us together,” she says.

The glint of tears in her eyes alarms me. I’m not sure what to say in response to this surge of emotion. She’s not wrong, but she’s also talking as though we’d been bosom buddies, when the reality is that by the time we graduated from high school, she was passing me in the hallway without even looking at me. Pleated skirts and pom-poms versus black lipstick and torn fishnets. We hadn’t had a falling out, but we’d done a bit more than simply drift apart.

“Let’s grab a couple of fresh glasses of that terrible champagne while we catch up. Okay?” She’s already waving toward one of the servers, and I have time to admire her perfectly polished, crimson nails. I haven’t had a manicure or gel tips in months. Too expensive, and besides, working in the garden ruins long nails.

“Oh … I really shouldn’t …”

“It’s a class reunion. If that’s not the perfect reason to get hammered, what is? I mean, c’mon. Look at this group! We all got so freaking old.” Her laughter has an edge, but it’s still contagious.