Nina was very happy to see Tarine standing in front of her. And she was surprised when the door opened again and behind Tarine came Greg Robinson.

She had never met Greg personally. But she knew who he was. He’d worked with her father. He was the producer behind the biggest hits of the past two decades. Sam Samantha. Mimi Red. The Grand Band. Greg was the one creating these people, creating their music. He’d even had a few hits of his own back in the late sixties.

Greg put his hand on Tarine’s shoulder comfortably—and that is when Nina realized her twenty-seven-year-old friend was dating a man who was at least fifty.

Nina made her way over and Tarine smiled at her. Nina leaned in and gave her friend a tight hug. “I’m so glad you made it,” she said.

“Yes, well, I know it is the party of the century,” Tarine said.

“Greg, hi,” Nina said, shaking his hand. “Welcome.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Greg said. “I’m fond of your father. Some of my first big jobs were on his records. Great guy.”

Nina flashed her perfected smile. Brandon spotted them all and came to join the conversation.

“Hi, Tarine,” he said, raising his glass to her.

“Brandon,” Tarine said, her face blank. “A surprise.”

Brandon smiled and introduced himself to Greg. Greg shook Brandon’s hand and then looked around the living room, clocked the DJ.

“Any chance I can get behind that deck?” Greg asked.

Nina turned in the direction Greg was looking, at first not sure what he meant.

“Greg cannot stand it when another soul is in charge of what he is listening to,” Tarine said, holding Greg’s hand.

Brandon looked at their hands, intertwined together, for a moment too long, and something about the way he did it gave Nina the impression that he was less surprised about their age difference, and more surprised that Tarine was dating a black man.

“Are you kidding?” Brandon said, recovering quickly. “We would love to have you in charge of the ones and twos.”

Nina wasn’t sure what she cringed at more. Brandon trying to sound like Greg Robinson or Brandon saying “we” so casually.

“I’ll take you over,” Brandon said.

“I don’t want to upset your guy. I’m sure he’s great,” Greg said.

“No,” Brandon said, waving Greg off. “He gets paid either way. He’ll understand the Greg Robinson is here.”

Greg laughed and then the two of them walked in the direction of the DJ, with the intention of breaking his heart.

“I need your best red wine, my love,” Tarine said, the moment they were out of earshot. “Not the low-shelf stuff you give to everyone. The stuff you reserve for people like me, please. It has been that kind of day.”

Nina laughed. Tarine could be completely and utterly obnoxious. But Nina simply didn’t mind. She admired the way Tarine never pretended to be anything she wasn’t, the way she was so confident in exactly who she had chosen to be, as if there were never any other option.

“I do not mean to be rude,” Tarine said. “Obviously. But there are men smoking cigarettes in saggy pants outside. I cannot drink the same wine as them.”

Nina laughed. “They’re drinking Coors from a keg.”

Tarine frowned and it was clear to Nina that she had never heard of Coors, did not have a context for it other than to know it was beneath her. “I suspect you are proving my point,” Tarine said.

Nina took her friend by the hand and brought her around the foyer to a small hidden door under the stairs. She hit four digits on the keypad and showed Tarine the wine cellar.

“Choose whatever you want,” Nina said and then she slipped her hand out of Tarine’s. “Just close it up after you take your bottle.”

“Do not think you are leaving me here,” Tarine said.

The music changed abruptly, from New Wave to Top 40. Nina watched as a rush of young women came running through the kitchen on their way to the living room. Tarine and Nina overheard one of them say, “No way is Greg Robinson here! No way!” The whole party got louder, everything elevated: the melody, the beat, the screams of excitement.

“I was going to see how things were faring outside,” Nina said as she pointed toward the lawn.

Tarine shook her head, raising her voice above the din herself. “No, you are not. You are going to stand here with me while I choose my bottle and then we are going to go somewhere and you are going to tell me why Brandon is here. I thought we were done with that snake.”

Nina felt a bit nauseated at the thought of having to explain. She wanted to make a joke. But Tarine was not someone you could brush off. Nina wondered, for a moment, how one became like that. What did it take? To say exactly what you meant? To feel comfortable in the middle of causing discomfort? To not feel—so intrinsically as to be as vital to yourself as your blood—that it was your responsibility to make things smooth and pleasant for everyone?

Tarine looked at Nina more pointedly, waiting for Nina to explain herself. Nina shrugged and said, “I love him.”

Tarine turned and looked at her, furrowing her eyebrows, not buying it.

Nina rolled her eyes and tried a different answer, one closer to the truth. “It’s just easier this way,” she said.

“Easier?” Tarine asked.

“Yeah, just, like, not as complicated and … just easier.”

Tarine frowned and then pulled a bottle of Opus One. “I am taking this,” Tarine said. “All right?”

Nina nodded. Tarine shut the door and pulled Nina through the crowd of people to the kitchen counter. She ruffled through Nina’s knife drawer and cooking utensils until Nina found a wine opener.

A cocktail waitress came by offering wine on one tray and lines of coke on the other and Tarine waved her off. “I have what I need, thank you.”

Nina stared at the tray of coke as the cocktail waitress snaked her way farther through the kitchen. She wondered when, exactly, that had happened. People couldn’t just do coke off the coffee tables anymore?

Tarine turned the corkscrew and then pulled the cork out.

The people around them turned at the sound. Some of them watched for a moment too long, these two beautiful women standing next to each other. Both tall and tan and lean and sparkling. Then they all went on with the rest of their conversations.

Nina saw the girl in the purple dress again, standing alone near the chips. She’d noticed her earlier, coming in the door. Now, the girl met her eye, somewhat timidly. Nina got the distinct impression the girl wanted her attention, would have loved the opportunity to talk to her.

Increasingly, Nina was feeling like the party attracted people who wanted her to provide them a good story to tell. They wanted to be able to say they met “the girl from the poster” or “the girl from the T-shirt ad” or “Mick Riva’s daughter” or “Jay Riva’s sister” or “Brandon Randall’s wife” or whatever other way they wanted to define her.

“Do you ever wish you could be invisible for five minutes?” Nina asked Tarine.

Tarine looked at her, considered her. “No,” she said. “That sounds like a nightmare.” Tarine poured herself a glass and suddenly, Kyle Manheim pulled up between the two of them.