Estrella

I stare across the ballroom at Anwen, surrounded by gorgeous women. A brunette throws her head back in a laugh and starts to put her hand on his arm, then pulls back. If I wanted to be kind—if I hadn’t already spent three hours stumbling through conversations like some kind of backcountry rube—I would assume he didn’t see the hand in time to pull away. But I know how perceptive he is. It’s one of the things I’ve grown to love about him. And it means that any plausible deniability is impossible for me to extend. I sip my drink.

“Luna Estrella.” A man about my age with jet-black...