“Not Dmitri?” I say, eyeing the glass so I don’t have to look straight into his eyes.

The smile softens in my peripheral vision. “And you’re … Manon, right?”

I blink at him, embarrassed in my blue wig.

“Sorry,” he says. “Small island, you know? And you’re not exactly … unknown.”

“It’s fine,” I say, realizing it’s the second time he’s apologizing to me. I’m so used to being the one apologizing for nothing—for my existence—all the time. This makes me relax a little—makes me feel like I don’t need to worry about taking up too much space. “Yes, I’m Manon. Not quite as majestic as … whatever my sister said it was.”

He swishes around the liquor in his glass. “Is your name Viloki or French? Like Manon des Sources?”

I’m caught off guard by that—it’s a somewhat random French novel from 1962 that Mama liked. I don’t think she ever mentioned it in any interviews, but who knows. I nod noncommittally and am distracted by the spray of gorgeous laughter coming from Tai. I look up with Hérrakí and notice that this laugh is 100 percent the kind she uses to lure boys in.

Hérrakí leans into me. “I feel like we’re pawns in a really bizarre game I don’t want to play.”

I swallow down a guffaw, just as I overhear Tai say, “Let’s not pretend you have anything novel to say about Count Vronsky, Vlad,” and the drink in my hand shakes with silent laughter. “Isn’t he your friend?”

Hérrakí blows the air from his mouth. “No way. He’s the son of a family business partner. I just moved to the city, and my family’s worried that I don’t know anyone. They’ve been setting me up with different people my age.”

“Maybe you’re better off using one of those dating apps,” I say. “Or getting the platonic equivalent of a Pocket Girlfriend.”

His grin finally breaks open, into its full, unabashed self. “Are they making Pocket Platonic Friends now?” He wipes his lips with a napkin. They are soft pink. “Don’t tempt me. I would love an off switch for Linos.” His eyes flash to mine. “Sorry. I guess they’re … a thing,” he says, waving in Tai’s direction.