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He steps closer and starts unbuttoning my shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t fight the process.”

He pops another button. Then another. Air hits my chest as the elevator climbs.

“That’s enough.”

“It’s not.” He opens the shirt nearly to my waist and steps back, satisfied. “There.”

“I look ridiculous.”

“You look like a midlife hottie. Grief-gymming has done you some good, so show it off.”

I watch my chest and cheeks redden in the mirror. “Obnoxious.”

“It’s a sexy look.” He tilts his head. “If I didn’t love you so much, I’d hit it.”

The elevator dings before I can respond.

Don smiles at our reflections. “See? Party Paul is here.”

“I dislike him already.”

“Everyone does at first.”

The elevator opens into an enclosed lounge wrapped in glass. High-top tables. A buffet arranged with architectural precision. A shirtless bartender behind a small bar slicing limes.

Outside, the party sprawls under string lights and humid night air. There’s a pool no one is swimming in, a hot tub containing one young man and four older men pretending not to orbit him, and clusters of well-dressed guests holding cocktails like accessories.

A boy in a thong passes with a tray of drinks. Another stands on a low box near the railing, moving lazily to muffled dance music I remember from my twenties. The only people dancing are the ones being paid to.

“Oh,” I say.

Don steps beside me. “Don’t judge yet. You haven’t tried the shrimp.”

“I never remember how much I dislike these parties until I’m at one.”

Don pats my arms. “Excellent topic. Let’s drink about it.”

He points toward the indoor bar.

“Cocktails first. Then snacks. Then we can complain about everything.”

Don sends me to the indoor bar while he attacks the buffet.

I wait for our drinks and watch the party through the glass. The crowd is familiar in outline. Older men with money. Younger men with smooth skin. Couples I half-remember from dinners Renny dragged me through and beach afternoons where everyone pretended not to be ranking everyone else’s bodies.

One pair catches my eye. A man with silver hair, his hand resting easily at the lower back of the man beside him. The younger one is maybe early forties. Handsome. Tanned. Smiling at something I can’t hear.

I wonder if he’s as happy as he looks, the younger one. His smile looks practiced, like someone who knows when to laugh, where to stand, how to be seen beside a powerful man.

Maybe I’m projecting.

“Dos margaritas,” the bartender says, snapping me back.

“Gracias.”