as she walked out the door.
‘I love you too!’ Andy called after her, already digging out her strapless bra.
The dinner was surprisingly relaxed, far more so than Emily’s hysteria beforehand had indicated. The tent set up in the Everetts’ backyard overlooked the water, its open sides letting in the salty sea breeze, and a trillion miniature votive lanterns gave the whole night a feeling of understated elegance. The menu was a clambake, and it was spectacular: two-and-a-half-pound pre-cracked lobsters; clams in lemon butter; mussels steamed in white wine; garlic rosemary bliss potatoes; corn on the cob sprinkled with cotija cheese; baskets of warm, buttery rolls; and a seemingly endless supply of ice-cold beer with limes, glasses of crisp Pinot Grigio, and the saltiest, most delicious margaritas Andy had ever tasted.
After everyone had stuffed themselves with homemade apple pie and ice cream, they shuffled toward the bonfire one of the servers had set up at the edge of the lawn, complete with a s’mores spread, mugs of marshmallowy hot chocolate, and summer-weight blankets knit from a heavenly soft bamboo-cashmere hybrid. The drinking and laughing continued; soon, a few joints began circulating around the group. Andy noticed that only she and Max Harrison refused, each passing it along when one came to them. When he excused himself and headed toward the house, Andy couldn’t help but follow him.
‘Oh, hey,’ she said, suddenly feeling shy when she ran into him on the sprawling deck off the living room. ‘I was, uh, just looking for the ladies’ room,’ she lied.
‘Andrea, right?’ he asked, even though they’d just sat next to each other for three hours during dinner. Max had been involved in a conversation with the woman to his left, someone’s Russian-model wife who didn’t appear to understand English per se, but who had giggled and batted her eyes enough to keep Max engaged. Andy had chatted with – or rather listened to – Farooq as he bragged about everything from the yacht he’d commissioned in Greece earlier that year to his most recent profile in The Wall Street Journal.
‘Please, call me Andy.’
‘Andy, then.’ Max reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights, and held them toward Andy, and even though she hadn’t had a cigarette in years, she plucked one without a second thought.
He lit them both wordlessly, first hers and then his, and when they’d both exhaled long streams of smoke, he said, ‘This is quite a party. You girls did a tremendous job.’
Andy couldn’t help but smile. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘But it was mostly Emily.’
‘How come you don’t smoke? The good stuff, I mean?’
Andy peered at him.
‘I noticed you and I were the only ones who weren’t … partaking.’
Granted, they were only talking about smoking a joint, but Andy was flattered he’d noticed anything at all about her. Andy knew about Max – as one of Miles’s best friends from boarding school, and as a name in the society pages and media blogs. But just to be sure, Emily had briefed Andy on Max’s playboy past, his penchant for pretty, dumb girls by the dozen, and his inability to commit to someone ‘real’ despite being a whip-smart, good guy who was ceaselessly devoted to his friends and family. Emily and Miles predicted Max would be single until his forties, at which point his overbearing mother would place enough pressure on him to produce a grandchild, and he would marry a knockout twenty-three-year-old who would gaze at him worshipfully and never question anything he said or did. Andy knew all of this – she had listened carefully and done some research of her own that seemed to confirm everything Emily said – but for a reason she couldn’t quite pinpoint, the assessment felt off.
‘No story, really. I smoked in college with everyone else, but I never really liked it. I would sort of slink off to my room and stare at myself in the mirror and take a running inventory of all the poor decisions I’d made and all the ways I was deficient as a person.’
Max smiled. ‘Sounds like a blast.’
‘I just sort of figured, life is hard enough, you know? I don’t need my supposed recreational drug use making me unhappy.’
‘Very fair point.’ He took a drag off his cigarette.
‘And you?’
Max appeared to think about this for a minute, almost as though he were debating which version of the story to tell her. Andy watched his strong Harrison jaw clench, his dark brows knit. He looked so much like the newspaper pictures of his father. When his eyes met hers, he smiled again, only this time it was tinged with sadness. ‘My father died recently. The public explanation was liver cancer, but it was really cirrhosis. He was a lifelong alcoholic. Extraordinarily functional for a large part of it – if you can call being drunk every night of your life functional – but then the last few years, with the financial crisis and some tough business fallout, not as much. I drank pretty heavily myself starting in college. Five years out it was getting out of control. So I went cold turkey. No drinking, no drugs, nothing but these cancer sticks, which I just can’t seem to kick …’
Now that he mentioned it, Andy had noticed that Max only drank sparkling water during dinner. She hadn’t thought much about it, but now that she knew the story, part of her wanted to reach out and hug him.
She must have gotten lost in her own thoughts because Max said, ‘As you can imagine, I’m a really great time at parties lately.’
Andy laughed. ‘I’ve been known to disappear without saying good-bye just so I can go home and watch movies in my sweatpants. Drinking or not, you’re probably a better time than I.’
They chatted easily for another few minutes while they finished their cigarettes, and after Max led her back to the group, she found herself trying to catch his attention and convince herself that he was nothing more than a player. He was remarkably good-looking; Andy couldn’t deny that. Usually she was allergic to the bad boys, but tonight she thought she saw something vulnerable and honest. He hadn’t needed to confide in her about his father or admit to his drinking problem. He had been surprisingly forthright and totally down-to-earth, which were two qualities Andy found immensely appealing. But even Emily thinks he’s bad news, Andy reminded herself, and considering her friend was married to one of the biggest party boys in Manhattan, that was saying something. When Max said good-bye a little after midnight with a chaste cheek kiss and a perfunctory ‘Nice to meet you,’ Andy told herself it was for the best. There were plenty of great guys out there, and there was no need to get stuck on a jerk. Even if he was adorable and seemed perfectly sweet and genuine.
Emily appeared in Andy’s room the next morning at nine, already looking gorgeous in miniature white shorts, a batik-print blouse, and sky-high platform sandals. ‘Can you do me a favor?’ she asked.
Andy draped an arm across her face. ‘Does it involve getting out of bed? Because those margaritas crushed me last night.’
‘Do you remember talking to Max Harrison?’
Andy opened an eye. ‘Sure.’
‘He just called. He wants you, me, and Miles to go to his parents’ place for an early lunch, to talk numbers for The Plunge. I think he’s serious about investing.’
‘That’s fantastic!’ Andy said, not sure if she meant it more for the invitation or the news about the funding.
‘Only Miles and I are having brunch with his parents at the club. They just got back this morning and
