In the sea of blow-dried dos and painted faces, I find one that I recognize. A mass of strawberry blonde hair arranged in a high, unfashionable ponytail. I can tell it’s her even when her back is to me. She is wearing a spaghetti-strapped flowery dress to a goddamn gala and still manages to steal the entire show. Her neck is long and elegant, swanlike even, and seems just as fragile. As if sensing my gaze on her, she turns around. Her face is wide, open, smiling. She is radiant, and I remember the last time we met, when she almost gave Cory a heart attack and nearly annihilated me in
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