Sublime

There’s a small crowd forming at the very center of the layered rugs and in the middle, of course, is Charlie Milford. Stella’s half brother. Party boy. Serial charmer. I don’t think there’s a good time that Charlie hasn’t organized, signed up for, or crashed without explanation.

Charlie Milford is the biggest goddamn flirt on the planet. He is made up of equal parts charm, charisma, and misplaced confidence.

Here he was, slapping him five, grabbing his shoulder, and talking too loud in a performance of gregariousness. A walking flinch.

Gabe, by contrast, was skin and bone. He was touching forty but looked ten years older again, with a face on him like a vandalised church, long and angular and pitted, eyes glinting deep in their sockets like smashed-out windows.

Having seen this example, Palantir partnered with a secondary fund to offer liquidity to its employees so that they would never trip the five-hundred-plus owner barrier.

(My teacher, Lee Ray, was one of his students.)

Charlie reaches over and closes his hand around mine, tugging my zipper up until it’s tight against my neck. “Nova,” he says carefully, eyes straight ahead. “Enough with the zipper.” “Is my stained Blondie T-shirt tempting to you?” His eyes slant down to mine. “You are tempting to me.”