‘I wasn’t talking about this place,’ Maggie told him as he stepped aside, letting us in. ‘This is… very nice.’

Which was kind of an overstatement. The living room was small, crowded with worn, mismatched furniture: plaid couch, striped recliner, very beat-up coffee table, stained with rings upon rings upon rings. Clearly, though, someone had taken steps to spruce it up, as was evident by the bowl of nuts on the table and what looked like a brand-new scented candle burning on the bar that led to the kitchen.

‘Decor,’ Adam said, having caught me noticing this. ‘It really makes a difference, don’t you think?’

‘Still stinks like beer,’ Leah informed him as she came in, dropping her phone in her purse.

‘Does that mean you don’t want one?’ Wallace yelled from the kitchen.

‘No,’ Leah said.

‘Didn’t think so,’ he replied, emerging with a twelve-pack of cans. He moved down the line, handing them off. I was going to pass but ended up taking one anyway, if only to be polite.

‘There are coasters to your left,’ Adam said to Leah as she popped her can.

‘Coasters?’ she said. ‘On this coffee table? It’s already covered with rings.’

He glanced at it, then at her. ‘Just because something’s damaged doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be treated with respect.’

‘Ad,’ Wallace said, ‘it’s a coffee table, not an orphan.’

Esther snickered. But Maggie, true to form, reached over and set a coaster on the table before putting her beer down. As she did, Adam reached behind him to the island, grabbing a camera sitting there. ‘Our first hot-dog party,’ he said, raising it to his eye. ‘I have to get a shot of this.’

The reaction in the room was swift, and unanimous: every single person except me raised their hands at once to cover their faces. The accompanying utterances, though, were varied. I heard everything from ‘Please no’ (Maggie), to ‘Jesus Christ’ (Wallace), to ‘Stop it or die’ (I’m assuming it’s obvious).

Adam sighed, lowering the camera. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘can you guys not allow one shot, once in a while?’

‘Because that was the deal,’ Wallace replied, his face muffled by his fingers, which were still over his mouth.

‘The deal?’ I asked.

Maggie separated her thumb and forefinger, then said through them, ‘Adam was yearbook editor for the last two years. He was relentless with the camera.’

‘I only had one person on staff!’ Adam protested. ‘I had no choice. Somebody had to take pictures.’

‘So we told him,’ Wallace continued, around his palm, ‘that we would tolerate it until the yearbook was done. But after that…’

‘No more pictures,’ Maggie said.

‘Ever,’ Leah added.

Adam put the camera back on the island, a glum expression on his face. ‘Fine,’ he said, and everyone dropped their hands. ‘But years from now, when you’re feeling nostalgic about this summer and yet can’t really reminisce because of a lack of documentation, don’t blame me.’

‘We’ve been fully documented,’ Maggie told him. ‘The yearbook candids were of nothing but us.’

‘Which is great, because you’ll never forget anything,’ he told her. ‘But that’s already history. This is now.’

‘The now in which we are spared being photographed.’ Leah picked up her beer – no coaster – and took a sip, then said, ‘So who else is coming to this shindig?’

‘You know, the usual suspects,’ Wallace replied, sitting down in the armchair, which sagged noticeably beneath him. ‘The guys from the shop, some of the locals from the bike park, that cute girl from Jumbo Smoothie, and –’

This thought was interrupted by the sound of someone banging up the steps. ‘Yo!’ a voice bellowed. ‘You guys better have some beer, because I am ready to get –’

Jake Stock – in a form-fitting black tee and a deeper tan than ever – stopped talking and walking the minute he came through the door and saw me and Maggie, side by side on the couch. Talk about a buzz kill.

‘Get what?’ Leah asked him, sipping her beer.

Jake looked at her, then at Wallace, who shrugged. ‘Lovely to see you as always,’ he said to Leah, then walked past her and us, heading to the kitchen. I glanced sideways at Maggie, but she was staring straight ahead at her beer on its coaster, her expression unreadable.

‘It’s not too late to hit the clubs,’ Leah said to her. ‘New boys, new chances.’

‘Grill’s on!’ Adam hollered from the back door. ‘Who wants the first dog?’

Maggie stood, picking up her beer. ‘Me,’ she called back, walking past Jake, who was leaning against the bar, sniffing the candle. ‘I do.’

An hour later, I’d had one beer, two tofu dogs, and, despite my efforts to keep up with the party and conversation around me, entirely too much time to run over what I’d seen on the boardwalk with Eli and Belissa. I looked at my watch: it was almost midnight. This time the night before, Eli and I had just been leaving Clyde’s, where he’d done a load of whites and we’d shared a piece of butter-scotch almond tart. I looked down at the bowl of nuts, untouched on the table in front of me, and took another sip of my beer.

Really, it had been stupid to expect anything anyway. A few late nights does not a habit, or a relationship, make.