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A shirtless guy with abs I would call fake if asked comes around the side of the house holding a tray of empty glasses. He’s wearing tiny red briefs and a black bow tie. For mourning.

“What the fuck,” I say quietly.

Becca’s mouth opens, then closes. Then she starts laughing.

“You ready?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

We follow the curve of the driveway toward the side gate. A man in white pants and no shirt walks ahead of us with a glass of champagne in one hand and a tiny fan in the other. He has silver hair, a tan, and the stride of someone who can’t be rushed.

The first thing I smell is chlorine. Then sunscreen. Then weed.

I look at Becca.

“Okay,” she says. “So it’s not Downton Abbey.”

“No.”

Becca leans close. “Are we underdressed or overdressed?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I thought.”

At the gate, a younger guy with blond curls and excellent posture checks names from a tablet. He has the tense expression of someone who expects disaster.

“Name?” he asks.

“Clint DeLuca.”

His eyes lift to mine. “Of course. I’m glad you’re here.”

Of course.

He sticks out his hand, fingers tight and straight. “I’m Landy.”

I take his hand and shake it, careful not to snap his arm off at the elbow.

“This is Becca,” I say.

“Hi, Becca.” Landy smiles at her. “Welcome. Bar is straight through on the left. Food is on the deck. Pool towels are stacked by the cabana if you’d like to swim.”

He looks back to me. “Paul is coming around.”

I nod, and try not to show my nerves.

The backyard hits me all at once. Blue pool. White stone. Huge planters spilling flowers over the edges. DJ set up under a black canopy, one hand over his headphones while an early-2000s dance mix pulses through the yard.

Well-dressed people are everywhere. Men in shirts unbuttoned too far. Women in flashy sunglasses and flowing dresses. Older men with champagne, younger men with abs, drag queens posted around the pool like tropical birds.

And in the pool itself—boys, tanned and smooth and laughing too loudly. One wears a tiny yellow swimsuit that cannot possibly serve a practical purpose. Another dives under, comes up slick and grinning, and flips his wet hair back in a way so choreographed it might as well come with stage directions.

Becca follows my gaze. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”