“Why did you bring me here?”

“Well, you begged me not to take you home.”

“I did?”

He nodded. “You wouldn’t even give me your address.” This sounded plausible; Alexa sort of remembered shaking her head and making a motion like she was zipping her lips. “I asked you if you wanted to come here for a little while. We watched some Samantha Bee, and you fell asleep. I thought it was best if I just got you to bed instead of trying to get you back in the car and having a whole situation with your parents.”

“My mom,” she corrected. Then: “Samantha Bee? You’re so woke.” She was teasing, and also not.

“I try.”

“How come I don’t know you? Have you always lived here?”

“Since I was three.”

“You didn’t go to Newburyport High.”

“Immaculate Conception through eighth grade.” (The Catholic school. Alexa hadn’t known many of the IC kids, except for a few girls she played town soccer with in elementary and middle school.) “Then St. John’s Prep. I go to school in Vermont now.” He pointed to his T-shirt, which was gray. In purple letters were the words saint michael’s college and in the middle of the shirt was a drawing of a knighthead.

That explained it. “Wow. I’m so sorry. I have no idea how I got so drunk.” Even though she did know: it was simply a terrible mix of liquor and a strong beer and an extremely empty stomach. “What time is it?”

“Just after eight,” said Cam. “I’m an early riser. Do you need to call someone? Tell them where you are?”

Just after eight was good. In her house, nobody would expect her to be up before ten o’clock, and since Tyler had picked her up for last night’s party, her Jeep was still in the driveway. Even so, precautionary measures were in order.

Alexa picked up her phone, which was on the nightstand, plugged into a charger: a thoughtful bonus. There were five texts and two voice mails from Tyler, which she didn’t feel like listening to or reading yet. Her best bet was Morgan. She sent her a text. Soooo tired. Can u tell mom I got up and went back to bed? She knew that she had left the door to her bedroom closed, as she always did, and she knew that Morgan wouldn’t question her whereabouts and that her mother had read a long book last year about the power and necessity of sleep for the development of the teenage brain and since then had never judged Alexa for sleeping too much. Alexa could use the 360 app to ascertain when her mom and Morgan left the house, and then she would ask Cam to drive her home.

“Where are your parents?” she asked. Please don’t let there be parents downstairs, she thought. There was no way she wanted to do a walk of shame, shameless though it may be, past anybody’s parents.

“They’re not home. They went to the lake.”

New England was lousy with lakes, but the way Cam said it, so casually, as if there were only one, spoke to Alexa of legitimate money. She raised an eyebrow and said, like she didn’t really care, “Where?” Even though she was pretty sure she knew the answer.

“Winnipesaukee.” She waited. “Wolfeboro,” he admitted. Bingo! Home of Mitt Romney and the Marriotts.

“I see,” she said. She lifted the mug of tea to her lips. It was lightly sweetened, with just a hint of milk. Alexa was not a tea drinker. Her caffeine of choice was a cortado, especially the ones they served downtown at the Coffee Factory, or a double espresso from Starbucks with a small dollop of milk, no sugar. But, in the interest of being polite to this young man who had not taken advantage of her, she took a cautionary sip. It tasted like liquid gold, at once cleansing and nourishing. The warmth traveled down her body, all the way to her toes, then back up again, to her head. She had to stop herself from gulping the rest of it. “Thanks again,” she said. “For the tea—for everything. You really saved me from getting in a lot of trouble.”

“I am your knight in purple armor,” he said, grinning. His grin was—well, infectious was too strong a word, wasn’t it? Or was it? She found herself grinning back. Pull it together, Alexa, she told herself sternly. You have a boyfriend.

“You seem like you have a lot of school spirit,” she said. It wasn’t a compliment, not necessarily, but he took it as one.

“Thanks,” he said. “I play golf.”

“Golf? College golf?”

He nodded and smiled some more, seeming not at all embarrassed.

She rose from the bed, wondering if he was watching her, not that she cared, but of course he was watching her.

“Bathroom’s that way,” he said, “in case you don’t remember.” (She didn’t.)

She looked out the window. She could see a pristine pool bordered by iron lawn chairs with bright orange cushions and contrasting turquoise pillows—a color combination of which she approved. She could see a badminton net set up with a crisp yellow border around it, and the requisite corn hole game, painted with the Red Sox logo.

“Be right back,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound coquettish. The bathroom was en suite. There were two sinks, side by side, the kind where the sinks look like bowls or vessels dug up from a Greek archeological site and refurbished to perfection. She looked in the mirror above one of the sinks. Her hair was a disaster, and her mascara was smeared. She would never, ever let Tyler see her like this, nor would Tyler want to. She washed her face, then opened the cabinet under one of the sinks to see if she could find some passable moisturizer. There was a brand-new tub of Kiehl’s ultra facial cream, which would do just fine. She slathered it on, and returned to the bedroom.