Olivia
The bass from the speakers in Sloane’s backyard thumped through the grass and up into the soles of my bare feet. I’d kicked off my strappy sandals about an hour ago because the lawn was soft and the night was warm and I’d already had three glasses of the rosé Sloane kept pouring like it was water. Her forty-fifth birthday party was in full swing, string lights crisscrossed overhead, long tables groaning under catered trays of shrimp skewers and mini crab cakes, laughter spilling from every cluster of people. I should have been mingling. Instead I was leaning against the wooden fence that separated her yard from the neighbor’s, pretending to check my phone while I watched him.
Michael. Sloane’s only son. Twenty-four. Home from grad school for the summer. Six-foot-two now, shoulders
