I doubt Jenny’s asking about her brother like that, but the rest of those nosy assholes sure are when they ask.

Not really, I type back. It’s the only true response I can think of. I’m too emotionally spent to lie at this point.

There’s a pause. Then: OMG Carrie

That’s my Jenny. She got it. She’s not so far gone in caterers and cake toppers that she’s lost her heart. She remembered that I’m collateral damage here, that my life just came to a gigantic traffic sign: Road Closed Seek Alternate Routes. She’s trying to figure out how to comfort me.

Three bouncing dots, then: OMG Carrie, you’re still going to be my maid of honor, right? Because you’re the perfect height for Jamey.

Okay, maybe she is too far gone.

Are you sure you still want me? I mean, this is going to be awkward for Jenny and her family, too.

OF COURSE I DO!! And sweetie, I’m so sorry. My brother is an ass. We’re all in shock. I don’t know what to say. Boss just walked in for big meeting. Call you later xoxo

I’m still not exactly sure whether she has more concern for me or for her careful plans, but at least the whole fiasco’s not a secret anymore.

“‘Did you know’?” I mutter, my fingers worrying my braids. “‘Did you know’? How am I supposed to answer that?” I take out my frustration on the cold cup of coffee in front of me, ignoring the thick layer of milkfat that sticks to the top. One swig and I cringe. House coffee is better than this. Barely, but it is. I get up and head to the employee lounge.

“Oh, you already have one.” Ryan’s voice sounds disappointed as I startle, midway into the small kitchen..

I turn to see him standing behind me with a Grind It Fresh! go-cup the size of a small fire extinguisher. I love that their cup-size names make sense: small, medium, large, and life-support. No silly fake-Italian words for them.

“It’s left over from this morning,” I tell him. “It’s cold, and not in a good way. Is that really for me?”

Ryan’s getting to be like a canteen truck lately. You can be pretty sure he’ll show up with coffee, donuts, maybe a yogurt parfait or a soft pretzel — you just don’t know exactly when he’ll arrive or what he’ll be offering.

What is he offering, exactly?

“I thought you could use the energy.”

“Is caffeine the same as energy? I think there’s a nutritional difference. But that’s okay, I need them both.” I reach for the enormous cup he’s holding. It’s really too big to call it a cup. Vat? “Thank you.”

“How’s it going with virtual reality?” He sips from his own normal-size cup, but it smells more like spiced chai.

“Not great, but better than real reality.”

“That’s the whole point, right?”

“I guess so.” I hold up my phone. “Jenny texted. Jamey finally came out to them and she was worried that I wouldn’t want to be in the wedding anymore.”

“Did you tell her I’m coming as your date?”

I pause and study his face. We talked about this once, just as a joke. He might still be joking. I can’t quite tell. But… oh my God… it could actually work. I wouldn’t have to show up alone, sit alone at the reception, leave alone, while Jamey and my replacement reenact a scene from Dancing with the Stars and his grandmother asks me when we’re getting married.

“I can’t ask that of you! It would be three whole days, and we’d have to share a room,” I point out. Might as well be clear about the downsides. “And you couldn’t hit on any other women. No matter what.”

“Seriously? A weekend at a beach resort on the Cape, with an open bar and a beautiful date? I would pay to do that!” He grins and looks a little too much like Zeke for my comfort.

This could actually work.

Hmm. Maybe there’s a third scenario after all: Ryan and I arrive at the Inn a few hours early. We walk the dunes, telling O stories and laughing. We browse the local shops and he buys me an aqua baseball cap embroidered with a scallop shell: a memento. We stop at a pub for fried clams and beer. My hair is pulled into a ponytail that sticks out the back of my new cap. Back in the room, Ryan feels tired, so we lie down and he naps. I’m not sleepy; I watch his face and wonder what he’s dreaming.

The big day arrives. I do my maid of honor thing, Ryan plays the role of attentive boyfriend whenever anyone is looking. And sometimes when they’re not. He really is a great dancer, which is fun, and as a surprise he and the other O guys do a show to Brunos Mars’ Marry You that clears the floor and ends in an explosion of applause. When Jenny tosses her bouquet, I catch it, and I do not cry.

“Carrie? What do you say?”

RYAN

This is your chance! My mind screams at me, like a football coach on the sidelines in sudden death. My blood is pumping in my ears, and I’m on the verge of making a huge mistake.

So I don’t.

I don’t fuck this one up. For once.

“Carrie,” I say slowly, as if the idea were just coming to me slowly, like I hadn’t been stewing in it. “I’m not kidding.”

“Really?” She’s so cute when she scrunches up her face like that.

“You know,” I say with studied casualness, adding a shoulder shrug for emphasis. “We go as friends. But we’d pretend to be boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Our eyes lock when I say girlfriend.

“Why?” she gasps.

Oh, shit.

“I - I mean, oh. Oh. Um….”

This is worse than that time I jumped a chainlink fence when I was nine and got my underwear caught on a wire, gave myself a wedgie, and old Mr. Agliotti had to come out and cut me down with pinking shears.

“But,” she says, her cheeks turning pink, her gaze still on me as I force myself to smile. “No one would ever believe we’re together. You’re way out of my league.” She waves her hands at me, palms flat, like she’s washing a glass shower door.

Or rubbing my oiled pecs.

I like that second image better.

I give her a half smile. “No, I’m not. That’s crazy.” If I’ve gone this far, I might as well push it. Without worrying she’ll notice, I take in her body, enjoying the openness. She’s wearing black on black, with flat shoes and her braided hair. I know she thinks she’s plain and boring, but she’s wrong.