“A man can juggle flaming swords in front of me and still not impress me.” A thin wisp of smoke parts her lips, writhing toward the moon. “Let’s be real, could anyone at this stuffy party impress you?” She flips the question back. “You know, in the past, Kennedy actually meant something. But look at Ted Kennedy. RFK. Jack Schlossberg. Which? My God, he is insufferable.” But that’s what happens when the family tree grows too big. Cleo understands it, and she knows someone from a dynastic family like Santiago does too. “Well,” she wedges her cigarette butt into a half-eaten piece of cake sitting on the balcony edge, “I hope you win. Because if you lose to someone like that, I’ll never let you hear the end of it.” She wags a finger at him. “Then I’d say cease and desist with your mind games. I am much too drunk, and it’s unfair.” She is exaggerating, of course. Cleo is not nightclub drunk, hazy and rolling on MDMA in some dark room at 4AM (which Santiago has certainly witnessed in their many years of friendship). This is event drunk. Event drunk is champagne drunk, which is controlled enough to keep her wits about her while still leaving the door open for misadventure. “Boisterous is the point, dahhhling,” she says, dragging out the word with theatrical affect. “Or what? Are you afraid the average voter will see you with the bourgeoisie in Chelsea and tar and feather you in the streets?”