I’m pretty sure she knows about the mess with Ryan, because Jamey is constitutionally incapable of keeping a secret from his sister.

Well, other than his own big one.

“You didn’t know me when I was nineteen, Carrie,” she says sensibly.

“If I had, you’d have looked like this. A long honeymoon suits you.”

“I credit Aiden entirely. He picked Bermuda, he picked the resort, but best of all — he picked me.” She beams. “And who would have guessed there are cruise ships to Bermuda directly out of Boston?” Her eyes wrinkle at the corners just like Jamey’s. When she smiles, she looks like him, warm and smart, playful and attentive.

“I’m so happy for you,” I say, sitting down across from her at a table made of broken shards of ceramics and some lightweight metal shaped like a Game of Thrones sculpture.

“What about you and Ryan?” She winks. “You seemed really cozy at the wedding.” Leaning in, it’s clear she expects me to dish.

And by dish, I mean describe every second of fabulous sex.

Jamey must have kept his mouth shut about what happened with Ryan after all. There’s a first time for everything.

“About that,” I jump in, deflecting. “I’m sorry again for missing the brunch. I drank too much.”

“So did everyone. You didn’t miss out. We basically spent a small fortune for people to drink water and munch on plain bagels while begging for ginger ale. Everyone was shitfaced.”

“Oh.” Guilt returns when I remember that morning. As maid of honor, I really dropped the ball.

Then again, when your heart breaks, you don’t exactly worry about whether your hair looks good. I wasn’t in any frame of mind to be at a brunch and do my duties. I just couldn’t.

She gives me a one-eyed squint. “Something’s off.”

I touch my hair. “What?”

“You. Ryan. What happened?” She peers at me, hard. “What really happened?”

Best friends can read you so well.

Too well.

“Nothing. That’s kind of, well — nothing. It was just — “

“Just?”

“Okay. Ryan was pretending to be my date. I was so embarrassed with everything involving Jamey. He was a gentleman and stepped up to the plate, acting like my date. It was all fake,” I confess, throwing my hands over my face and peeking between my fingers.

“Then he’s a damn fine actor, Carrie. That didn’t look like he was pretending. And everyone knows you’re incapable of lying. One look at you and your feelings for him were obvious. In two years of dating my brother, I never saw you look at Jamey like that.”

“It was all in good fun.” The words taste like pity, a bitter, acrid flavor I never want to taste again.

“Carrie.” She touches my knee, her rings glittering. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Commence waterworks. As Jenny watches me with eyes so close to Jamey’s, so kind and understanding as I turn my latte salty with my own tears, she can’t help but look like my polar opposite. Jenny’s tan and happy and well-fucked.

I’m pasty white and pathetic and, well —

fucked.

“It’s just that I, I was pretending! I really was! Ryan offered to be my pretend date so I wouldn’t look like the pathetic unwitting beard that Jamey turned me into and so I went along with it.”

“Mmm, hmmm?” Jenny hands me a handkerchief. Perfectly pressed, monogrammed with her married initials, smelling like baby powder and lilac.

“And, and it was great! Ryan was the perfect fake boyfriend.”

“But it wasn’t fake, was it? You really care about Ryan.”

“It wasn’t fake for me!” I wail.

“Good grief, Carrie. I’ve known you had a thing for Ryan for a while. Jamey wondered, too.”

My sobs turn to a single sound like Godzilla gagging on a Xanax. “What?”

“You two are perfect for each other. Ryan’s casual and smart. So are you. You both love those stupid reality television shows. You even like the same kind of pizza!”

“But he’s my friend.”

“So? Aiden was my friend before he became my husband.”

“Yes, but you and Aiden are well matched.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look at me! Ryan and I have a 6.5 point difference!”

Her head snaps back. “You do not!”

I am so grateful I can speak in code and not have to explain the attractiveness math scale to her.

“He’s a 10.5! I’m a 4!”

“This again?” she groans. “You’re not a 4!”

“Then why did he ghost on me? And after we slept together at your wedding?”

“You did?” she squeals. “Was it good?”

“What do you think, Jenny? I finally sleep with a guy who thinks a woman’s body is a buffet after only being with guys who treat me like I’m gruel. Of course it was good.”

She snorts.

“It was great,” I admit. “It was everything I never knew I was missing.”

“Then why aren’t you with him?”

“Because he disappeared right in the middle of your reception. Came to work a couple of days later and commented on how it had been ‘fun’ pretending.”

“Ouch!”

“I know. Trust me, I know.”

“Carrie, I know how he looked at you at the wedding. He wasn’t faking.”

“Jenny, no offense, but you were too busy complaining about the squeaky corks in the Chardonnay to notice how Ryan looked at me.”

She doesn’t deny it, regret clouding her face. “I’m sorry. I really was too self-absorbed. Jamey’s breakup with you and coming out was an emotional rollercoaster on top of the wedding. But Jamey told me. Commented on it. I think Ryan managed to make my gay brother a little bit jealous.” I could do without her waggling eyebrows.

“I am not even going to attempt to parse that out. I need three psychologists, a sex therapist, Dan Savage, and a Freud puppet to even try.”

“Bottom line: your gay ex could tell Ryan feels more for you than some pretend feelings.”

“Then Ryan has an awful way of showing it,” I sob, sniffling and dabbing my eyes with logo-covered napkins. Coffee shops should be stocked with tissues. Preferably the kind with lotion built in, so criers like me don’t look like coke fiends after having a good cry in our lattes.