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Don reappears with a small plate stacked obscenely high with shrimp, croquettes, tiny tostadas, and something skewered.

“Inside or full display?” he asks.

“I don’t care.”

“Dangerous words.” He studies me. “Outside. Before we start liking the air conditioning too much.”

The rooftop air hits warm against my open chest. Annoyingly, it feels good.

We drift toward the railing. I scan the crowd again and spot Alby and Brad across the rooftop, mid-laugh in matching floral shirts with the colors reversed. For some reason, that makes me smile.

“Want to say hello?” I ask.

“In a minute.” Don lifts his plate. “I don’t want to be the girl with the biggest plate.”

I look back over the party. Familiar faces. Forgotten names. Renny used to be the forgetful one. I used to remember for both of us.

I see Clint from behind first. The shape of his shoulders. The buzzed hair. The angle of his head as he sits in a chair facing the ocean, one arm hanging loose over the side.

He’s slouched low in the chair, wearing only tiny neon underwear and his old sneakers, one knee angled out, head dipping forward, then snapping back up.

There’s a mostly empty drink on the ground beside his foot.

“Oh God,” Don says beside me. “We’ve been spotted.”

I follow his gaze back to Alby, who waves with his entire arm, grinning broadly. Brad stands beside him with his signature half-smile.

“Here we go,” Don says. He sets his plate on the nearest high-top and wipes his fingers on a napkin. “Any sauce on me?”

I look at him. “No.”

He starts toward them, then pauses when I don’t follow.

“Paul?”

Clint’s head dips again. This time, it stays down longer.

“I’ll meet you over there,” I say.

Don follows my line of sight. His expression changes.

“Is that him?”

“Yes.”

Don looks from Clint to me. “Careful. Looks messy.”

I set my untouched margarita on the table, then I walk to Clint.

I stop beside his chair. Standing over him feels wrong, so I crouch. The music thumps softly behind us. Clint’s head turns a fraction, but his eyes don’t quite find me.

“You alright?”

His arm jerks when I touch his wrist.

“Fuck off.”

Then he looks again. For one second, his face softens.