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“Charlie!” His mother hurried across the foyer. “Why aren’t you wearing the outfit I picked out for you? I put a sticky note on it and everything. It says ‘Night One.’”

“I must have gotten sidetracked. Should I go change?” He looked hopefully at the stairs. Maybe he could forget to come back down while he was at it.

“That’ll have to wait,” his father said, taking Charlie by the elbow and turning him to face a man in a denim shirt with a handlebar mustache that didn’t quite match the reddish-orange of his hair. “Charlie, I’d like you to meet Haggard Jones.”

“H-Haggard?” Charlie stumbled a little over the name, not convinced he’d heard right.

“Of Haggard’s Red Hots,” his dad supplied.

“Ah.” Charlie gave what he hoped was a knowledgeable nod. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” the other man said, twisting the end of his mustache. “I guess you know all about getting scorched. You like it spicy, eh? Too hot to handle?”

“That’s my boy,” Mr. Pike chimed in, not exactly illuminating the subject matter. He looked expectantly at Charlie.

“Well, uh, sometimes you need special gloves.” He was thinking of a cooking show he’d watched at the resort, about dicing hot peppers.

“Oh ho,” Haggard said, with another belly laugh. “So that’s how the kids are doing it these days. Teaching this old dog new tricks.” He leaned closer, nudging Charlie with his elbow. “She is a muy caliente lady.”

“She? Oh.” He was talking about Adriana, not kitchen safety. Before Charlie could think of a polite way to tell the older man to get his mind out of the gutter, he was dragged away like a puppy on a leash.

“He’s a seven-day wonder,” Charlie’s father informed him. “Canned cocktails that burn your taste buds off. Plenty of buzz, which is why we invited him, but I doubt he makes a go of it once the novelty of drinking carbonated hot sauce fades. Anyway, he’s not the most important person here.”

His father gave an exaggerated ahem, as if his son must know exactly who he was talking about.

That added an extra layer of tension to the interval that followed, during which Charlie met a woman with silver-streaked hair and a nose ring who’d recently taken over her father’s bourbon business (“Isn’t that wonderful, Charlie?

Keeping it in the family!”); a vodka producer from Iceland who invited Charlie to visit the hot springs there, which was confusing on multiple levels; and an aggressively fit couple from Canada who (when not playing pairs tennis on the over-65 circuit) were launching a new line of low-calorie brandy-and-wine spritzers.

“Do not use the word ‘sangria,’” Charlie’s dad warned as they left the husband-and-wife team. “It’s a sore spot.”

That much at least seemed within Charlie’s capabilities. Unless he’d jinxed himself by thinking that? He tugged at the neckline of his shirt. Either it was too warm in here or anxiety was making him sweat.

“Don’t fidget,” Mr. Pike said through a toothy smile. “Everything is wonderful. We should get you a drink!”

“That’s o—” he started to say, when Mugsy appeared at his side.

“Here you go.” She held out a bottle of Pike’s Pale Ale.

“Good girl,” Mr. Pike said, beaming at her. “Still taking care of our Charlie.”

“Dad, Mugsy does a lot more than that.” Even though he felt slightly betrayed by the beer delivery, it bothered him more that his father still saw her as Charlie’s handler, as opposed to an independent businesswoman.

“Of course,” Mr. Pike agreed, scanning the room for other conversational opportunities.

His gaze lingered on the patio doors, beyond which Charlie could see a cluster of younger guests.

They were all laughing as a blond guy with slicked-back hair told a story, gesturing with the hand holding his beer.

It looked like Charlie’s worst nightmare—the loudness, plus all the competitive social undercurrents he’d never understand, not having studied primates—so he was surprised his father hadn’t urged him to go out there yet.

It was a script he knew well. Go mingle with the other young people, Charlie.

Translation: why can’t you be more like them?

No one had been more thrilled than Mr. Pike when Adriana Asebedo invited Charlie to visit her in L.A.

His mom and Mugsy worried, but Charlie had been swept along by his father’s encouragement.

Good to see you coming out of your shell, son .

Which was not a reference to oviparity, because when Charlie pointed out that some reptiles have live births, his father only frowned.

Dating, on the other hand, Mr. Pike understood. What could be more normal than boy meets girl? Even if the girl happened to be a global superstar and the boy couldn’t handle the glare of the spotlight.

The bitter taste at the back of Charlie’s throat was even more unpleasant than beer, so he took a cautious sip, choking when it hit his tongue.

Mr. Pike sighed at his son’s lack of smoothness, but the truth was that Charlie had nearly done a spit take because it wasn’t beer, despite the label on the bottle.

“Nettle and goldenrod,” Mugsy whispered, covering her mouth like she was about to sneeze. She must have poured out the beer and replaced it with one of her teas, a light floral blend with a hint of sweetness that was far more soothing to his jangled nerves than a bottle of bitter bubbles.

“Delicious,” Charlie said, feeling only slightly guilty when his father perked up.

“That’s right, son. Guess you couldn’t get an ice-cold Pike’s out there in the jungle.”

“They call it the bush—” Charlie started to explain, but his father was already locked on to his next target, tugging his belt loops and smoothing his hair before beelining across the room. Mrs. Pike waved at Mugsy, who hurried to her side, leaving Charlie alone in the sea of people.

He’d asked a therapist once why crowds felt lonelier than being on his own.

She quoted an old poem about a sailor that said something like, water everywhere but not a drop to drink .

Because you couldn’t drink salt water but seeing it all around made your thirst worse, like it was rubbing your face in what you couldn’t have.

Only Charlie wasn’t desperate to talk to all these people, “working the crowd” like his father.

If it was a question of longing, a deep and pressing desire, there was only one person Charlie wanted.

He wondered if it would always be like this, the hollow ache in his chest Jean had left behind. Maybe he didn’t want it to hurt less, if this was all he had to remember her by.

A metallic clank disrupted his train of thought. It was the gin distributor from Scotland, easy to spot with his plaid bomber jacket, though you’d hear him coming first, thanks to the spurs he was clanking across the floor.

“Charlie!” His father circled an arm. “Come over here.”

Here we go, Charlie thought. His dad was standing by the sliding-glass doors, no doubt about to throw Charlie to the wolves.

He had a vivid memory of his father’s voice yelling, “Sink or swim, son!” after chucking him into the deep end of the community pool.

Like it was a question of willpower, and if Charlie didn’t want to drown, he’d figure it out.

Luckily, Mugsy had been there to grab him by the rash guard and haul him to the ladder.

“There he is,” his dad said.

“Who?”

“The brains behind this entire operation.” He clearly expected Charlie to be bowled over with amazement, as if turning their home into a fairground was a good thing. “Smithson is a natural leader.”

That must mean Smithson was the one Charlie had noticed before, still doing all the talking… wait. “Did you say Smithson ?”

“Yes.” His father’s chin lifted, indicating the mouthy blond outside. “Smithson Barrett.”

“Smithson Barrett,” Charlie repeated.

“Do you have an ear infection? Smithson Barrett, like I said.” He checked to be sure no one was in hearing range before gesturing at Charlie to bend down. “Our rebranding consultant.”

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut and counted to three before opening them again, but the mirage didn’t dissolve.

Smithson Barrett, Jean’s high school nemesis.

The jerk who let her take the rap for his crimes.

She was right about the hair, he thought, squinting at the back of Smithson’s head.

It was hard to be certain with all the gel, but Charlie strongly suspected it was thinning, just as Jean had predicted.

Hard to believe Smithson was standing in Charlie’s backyard. “What are the odds?”

“It was more about persistence. I gave him the full-court press.”

As usual, Charlie and his father were speaking at cross-purposes. “Why?”

“Because we needed his magic touch.” His eyes took on a faraway look. You would have thought he was bragging to a casual acquaintance about his son, instead of the reverse.

“Did you check his references?”

His father huffed at the ridiculousness of the question. “Smithson has done wonders for his family’s business.”

“If he’s that great, don’t they need him back at Barrett’s?”

“He works with a very limited outside clientele. This is a real W for us, convincing Smithson to come on board. You could learn a lot from him, Charles. Take a page from his book.”

“No thanks.” He wasn’t looking for lessons on how to be a weasel. No offense to weasels.

His father glanced at his watch. “We’ll table that for later. I’ve got another surprise for you.”

“That’s nice,” Charlie said, unconvincingly.

“Don’t frown, son. It looks like you’re worried.” He hitched up his pants, elbows and toes angled outward in a stance that was probably supposed to telegraph confidence, even though it looked to Charlie like his dad’s underwear might be riding up.

“You’ll like this,” his father promised. “It’s a girl. Your kind of person.”

It was anyone’s guess what that meant. Glasses, most likely. Limited athletic ability. Not good at schmoozing.

“Can’t wait,” Charlie lied.