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a little fuzzy, and then Rel says, “It’s such a fucking gorgeous night. Let’s go to the beach!” It’s true: The day’s heat is no longer rising from the sidewalks, and there’s a slight breeze against my bare legs. It’s not yet August, when the entire city becomes soggy and fetid and unbearable. These July nights are perfect and fleeting.
    I use Rel’s back as a beacon to guide me down the stairs at Second Avenue, the straps of her sundress crisscrossing daintily over her shoulder blades. I don’t really understand where we’re going, just that I’m with Rel and Tina and everything seems hilarious. My apartment is just a few stops away and so I can gracefully hop off and go home to Peter in ten minutes or so. I look over at Tina and she’s grinning broadly. Her face in repose is generally so reserved—lips pursed, eyes unsmiling—that seeing her look happy is infectious. For reasons obscure to me Tina starts singing Lisa Loeb’s “Stay” really loudly right after we travel under the East River into Brooklyn. A bearded dude gets off at York Street, chuckling to himself, and then we’re all alone in the car, so Rel and I join in, reaching a shouty crescendo with the song’s last line: “AND YOU SAY / I ONLY HEAR WHAT I WANT TO . . .”
    Suddenly I realize the train is outside, and I look out the thinly cracked window at the broad boulevards below. I start smelling the Atlantic’s particular brine. I can tell that we’re getting farther and farther from the tiki bar. I also realize that we’ve blown past my subway stop and I don’t even know how far. I take out my phone and see that I have two missed calls and three texts from Peter. The texts are increasingly anxious.
     
Peter Rice (8:48 PM): Hey! Hope you’re having fun with the girls! Call me when you have a second.
     
Peter Rice (10:55 PM): Haven’t heard from you. Have a big day tomorrow so I’m getting into bed.
     
Peter Rice (12:59 AM): Can’t sleep. Where are you??? Hello??
     
    My iPhone says it’s 1:22 now. “Shit, I have to call Peter!” I exclaim. My face flushes three times, first with guilt because he’s probably sitting at home worrying about me; immediately after because I’m annoyed that his feelings have interrupted my buzz; finally, a third time because I feel guilty for being annoyed.
    “ Busted! ” Rel shouts.
    I fumble at my phone, finally getting to Peter’s number. He picks up after one ring.
    “Alex, where are you?”
    “Hey, baby! I’m on the F!” I say it brightly, hoping that he’ll hear that I’m kind of drunk but still safe, and he won’t want to start a fight over the phone.
    “How are you getting reception?” he asks, the confusion outweighing the palpable concern in his tone.
    “We’re outside!”
    “What do you mean you’re outside?” Peter’s voice is rising, incredulous.
    “We’re going to the beach?” It comes out as a question because I still am not 100 percent sure where we’re headed.
    “Are you going to Coney Island at one in the goddamn morning?”
    Rel is sitting next to me and can hear what Peter is saying. “We sure are!” she says, loud enough for him to hear.
    “Alex.” He says it evenly but I detect a tinge of condescension. The tone sets me on edge and instinctively makes me want to contradict him.
    “Mmmm?”
    “This is a really bad idea.”
    “It’s going to be okay, I promise!”
    “I’m too tired to argue with you. Have fun on needle beach with a bunch of crackheads,” he says, and hangs up.
    I can’t tell if he’s pissed that I didn’t call him earlier or if he’s more worried that I’m going to get hurt among the syringes and dirty condoms that litter the Coney Island boardwalk. Or maybe it’s that he’s a tiny bit jealous that I’m out with Rel and Tina while he’s in bed by eleven so he can be shiny and fresh for work in the morning. His call takes me out of the moment, and I look down at the mottled floor. It’s unclear how for long