Chapter 1

CARRIE

I swear to you, when I get married, I am NOT going to make my bridesmaids pay $250 for a dress. A hideous dress that makes them look like a) a grandmother; b) an elephant; or, in extreme cases, c) a grandmother elephant.

I'm not.

Just because it comes from J. Crew Weddings does not mean you can actually wear it again in real life. Trust me on this.

Also, I'm not making them fly to Las Vegas or Cancun and pay thousands of dollars to stay at a resort for three days just so I can post pictures on Facebook and Instagram of them toasting me by the pool. With fourteen-dollar cocktails. And a stupid caption, like, "What would I do without my besties?"

I am not doing this.

And yes, I know, they all said that, too. Before.

Perfectly reasonable women get engaged and apparently their memory banks are instantly wiped clean. Common sense, too.

They forget their college roommate's wedding, when — due to an unfortunate YouTube sensation — they were required to dance (dance!) down the aisle in a $300 sequin minidress (with coordinating sheer organza coat for modesty in church, $95).

They suddenly do not recall their cousin's sweet country theme, with the daisies and the barbeque and the IPA beer, and the $175 lavender flowered cotton maxidress with puff sleeves that went with it. Just try wearing that one to a future cocktail party. I dare you.

In my darker moments, I suspect there may be a kind of payback factor at work here.

Anyway, there's a reason it's called the wedding-industrial complex. And that's not the end! Then there are the baby showers.

Don't get me wrong. I love my friends dearly. I really don't know what I would do without them. I want their special day to be a treasured memory of perfect happiness, rare and well-deserved, documented in photographs. Their joy is my joy.

But my pain is apparently not their pain.

Let's look at the plus side.

I'm going to be the maid of honor in my friend Jenny's wedding. You probably saw that coming. I met Jenny at work here at the O Spa, the women’s private club chain where I am the Assistant Director for Design. O Spas are the “fourth space” for women. Home, work, and other public venues are the first three.

We are meant to be the ultimate space. From highly-trained, well-oiled, hot massage therapists who wear g-strings that are outlawed in 111 countries, to a sex toy boutique with weekly workshops, to a new coffee bar with lattes that are better than sex, the O Spa caters to what women want.

A break, a chance, and a friend.

Jenny loved working for O, but she moved on a year ago, a promotion she could only get by changing companies. We were never just work friends. We're true best friends, and besides that, we could be sisters-in-law someday. I'm dating her brother, Jamey.

Who is standing in front of my desk right now, telling me about the tickets he just scored to Straight No Chaser at the Wang Center in November. We love a cappella.

"Fifth row, Carrie! And it'll be near the holidays, so maybe they'll do songs from their Christmas album!" His dark, wavy hair falls over his forehead in a boyish little curl. His eyebrows are perfectly arched. He gets them threaded more often than I do. His narrow chinos are rolled at the cuff, exposing his bare ankles in brown loafers. And is that my cotton scarf knotted around his neck?

I smile at him. Jamey is a great boyfriend because he always wants to do fun and unusual things. Has ever since we began dating two years ago. Our friends rely on Jamey to keep them current. When Steve Martin curated the Lawren Harris show at the MFA, we were the first people in the door. When Juliet opened in Union Square, we were tasting the tasting menu before anyone else had tasted it.

You can see why a lavender flowered cotton dress — with puffed sleeves — is of no use to me.

“We can go back to my place after the concert and I’ll make cocoa. Bet you’d enjoy something sweet and hot,” I say with a flirtatious grin. I give him what I hope is a smoldering look. He’s holding my hand and his eyes widen in mock excitement, then he looks away.

I love Jamey.

And he loves me. What kind of guy stops by his girlfriend’s work with Grind It Fresh! cinnamon lattes after finishing his Crossfit routine?

Jamey would fit in so well here at O.

A little too well. Looks like he’s thinking about moonlighting here, judging from the way he’s tracking Zeke, one of the master masseurs.

“Hey,” Zeke grunts, his English accent somehow coming out even in a single-syllable sound.

Jamey doesn’t say a word. He just keeps staring at Zeke, whose face hardens. His eyes dart to me, as if he’s asking What the fuck?

I shrug. “Like what you see?” I whisper in Jamey’s ear.

He jumps so high he nearly knocks my latte out of my hand. I recover quickly. Can’t waste a Grind It Fresh! latte. But a few drops spill down the edge of my skirt.

“Whoops!” he shouts, a little too brightly. “So sorry, angel.” His hug is swift and sweaty, his scent clinging, skin clammy and hot at the same time. Jamey is so affectionate. Always ready with a snuggle or a hug, a hand to hold while we go shopping.

Who needs lots of sex when you have a boyfriend who is practically a professional cuddler?

Not that we don’t have sex. I mean, you know. We do. I’ll bet we have as much sex as any other couple. Or most couples.

I guess.

Just… I am so fortunate to have a man who appreciates affection.

I take a sip of my drink. Now we both track Zeke’s ass as he turns to the left at the end of the hallway.

“You would look great in that uniform,” I tease Jamey.

He flushes, eyelashes fluttering. “What?” He clears his throat. “Why would you say that?” The judgmental tone is harsh, different from anything I’ve heard from him before.

I flinch. “I just meant, um… the way you were looking at his uniform, I thought…”

“You thought what?” He looks wounded.

Oh, God. I’ve offended him. I have to fix this. “Oh, I just meant, you know, that if you’re thinking about getting a part-time job like Zeke’s, you’d be fabulous here.”

His eyebrow quirks. “Fabulous? I’m an associate professor of rhetoric and composition at an R-1 institution. I don’t need a part-time job.” His eyes go a bit dull.

Just then, one of the other master masseurs, Ryan, walks by. He’s coming in to start his shift so he’s fully clothed in faded jeans, flip-flops, and a ragged, tight t-shirt that shows off muscles on top of muscles. Ryan is my best friend here at the O Spa. We started on the same day, two years ago, so we bonded. We’ve been buddies ever since.