“Bro Code,” I say somberly, giving Carlos another fist bump. “Never let a bro suffer.”

“Hey, man, let me tell you, it’s been so long that I’m backed up and I swear I can taste my own— ”

I hold up a palm. “Bro Code has limits. She’s my sister.” I put my fingers in my ears. “Lalalala.”

The twins imitate me.

And that’s the soundtrack as my sister and brother-in-law peel out of the driveway and take off for the business district in town, where the hotels cluster together.

Leaving me with mini Carlos, mini me, fourteen half-full pints of ice cream in the freezer, and Cartoon Network.

“It’s mantown!” I shout, the twins jumping up and grabbing my arms. I march around the room with boy meat hanging off me like beef jerky drying on a clothesline.

“ARRRRRRRR!” Darien shouts.

Elias drops to the ground like a ripe apple releasing and scurries back to his ice cream, scraping the bottom of the bowl then looking at me, hopeful.

“Uncle Ryan? More?” The look on his face says he knows his mom and dad would never let him.

“SURE!” I call out, reaching into the freezer to line up all the pints like little kids getting ready for recess. “Pick your poison.” I spot Carrie’s favorite flavor in there. I grab my phone to text her, wondering if she’s free.

Of course she is. She just got dumped. I should have called her sooner.

And — damn it. Dead phone. Shit.

“It’s not poison! Mom says ice cream is a kind of love potion.”

“She does?”

“She tells Daddy it gives her organisms when she eats it. I heard her the other night when I got up to pee.”

“Okay, buddy.” I rush through scooping a big pile of ice cream into his bowl so he’ll stuff his face and we can end this topic.

And move on to the real fun.

Bingewatching South Park.

Haha. Kidding.

Chapter 6

CARRIE

Jenny’s wedding is now ten days away. As far as I know, Jamey still has not come out to his family, and I think I would have been the first to hear about it if he had. Is there any etiquette for this, a standard procedure to be followed when your serious boyfriend switches teams a few weeks before a major family event in which you are both involved, yet doesn’t breathe a word to his closest relatives?

Do I at least give them a heads-up that something’s different? I mean, at the very least there’s going to have to be an extra place setting for Jamey’s new date at the reception, right? What about hotel rooms? If there aren’t any extra rooms, I guess I’ll have to share with another single bridesmaid.

Great. Not exactly what I had in mind.

What I had in mind went more like this: Jamey and I arrive at the Chatham Beach Inn a day before everyone else. We walk the dunes holding hands. We browse the galleries and he buys a lovely seascape, a small oil in soft blues and aquas: a memento. We drink sophisticated cocktails. My hair is perfect. Back in the room, Jamey is suddenly overcome with lust and passion for me, and we make love for hours while gazing out at the ocean view.

The big day arrives. We are paired in the wedding party, and everyone says what a perfect couple we make. What with the beach-walking and the cocktails and all the acrobatic sex, I have lost two pounds. After witnessing Jenny and Aiden’s romantic vows, Jamey is inspired to drop to one knee and propose to me on the dance floor. I accept, weeping tears of pure joy (but my eyes do not puff and my nose does not turn red). The reception explodes with applause, and when Jenny tosses her bouquet, I catch it. Happily. Ever. After.

That is what I had in mind.

Now, apparently, it’s going to play out a little more like this: I leave work at noon on a Friday and head to the Cape, just like everyone else in Boston. If my car doesn’t break down and leave me stranded on Route 3, I eventually check into a room shared with Angela, who arrived early and took three quarters of the closet, most of the counter space in the bathroom, and the bed with the ocean view. I missed cocktail hour. Angela snores.

The big day arrives. Jamey and I are paired in the wedding party, but he barely notices me and spends most of the ceremony looking at his Apple watch, surreptitiously texting someone. Which is just as well, because I have gained six pounds since the last time he saw me. At the reception, Jamey and his date steal the show with a choreographed swing dance routine that clears the floor and ends in an explosion of applause. It later becomes a viral YouTube sensation. When Jenny tosses her bouquet, I don’t catch it because I am in the ladies’ room weeping and eating a little gift bag of Jordan almonds. I think I read online that almonds contain trace amounts of cyanide. Maybe if I chew enough of them...?

Sighing, I sip my coffee and try to focus on my computer screen, where I have the virtual reality phone script open. I know how to design beautiful and sustainable rooms, but creating an imaginary space with words and sounds is different. What do women want to hear while they are on hold? Brazilian samba? Waves on the beach? Male moans?

I channel Yoda: Do. Or do not. There is no try.

To be honest? I’m having a hard time caring about the deeply personal satisfaction and radiant inner glow of every potential O client (translation: every female on the planet). My own inner glow feels more like a nuclear meltdown, evil green radioactive slime. And how does a virtual reality phone script even work?

So when my phone pings with a text, it’s actually a welcome distraction.

It’s Jenny: Is this some kind of practical wedding JOKE? Like short-sheeting our bed??

Looks like Jamey finally got around to sharing.

Not a joke I type. I consider adding a sad-face emoji, but that seems a little inadequate. And maybe inappropriate. This feels like when friends announce they’re pregnant, or getting a divorce. Best to stay neutral and follow their emotional cues before committing to a feeling.

WTF? Does he think these seating plans are easy to rearrange? He can’t just do this at the last second!

Jenny is obviously well beyond the bridezilla stage where her close friend’s heartbreak has any impact at all. Not to mention her brother’s life transformation.

I don’t think it was really a last-second thing, Jen, I type, hating Miss Manners right now. Where’s the style guide on this? Maybe Dear Prudence has some advice.

Did you know about this? Jenny shoots back. Oh, God. I’m going to have to answer this question for the rest of my life, aren’t I? Only most people will really be asking, “How could you sleep with a gay guy and not know the difference?”