He leans forward, obviously relieved. “Frankly,” he whispers, “the whole clamshell theme is a little bit overdone. Right?”

“They’re in the centerpieces,” I whisper back conspiratorially. I can’t resist. “There are chocolate shells in the swag bags.”

He holds up his paper cocktail napkin, printed with Jenny and Aiden’s names and… yep. Clamshells.

“Etsy,” we say at the same time.

An unexpected giggle bursts out of me. It feels familiar and good.

“I saw Ryan this morning, out for a run,” Jamey says as we wipe our eyes. “You know, I always thought there was a spark between you two. Very hot… but isn’t he kind of young for you? I mean, what do you talk about?”

I start to object, because Ryan’s only six and a half years younger, actually six years and five months, and while that’s a big difference it’s not that big, but we’re interrupted.

“We talk about politics,” someone interjects. “Global warming. JD Vance’s memoir, net neutrality, Amy Schumer’s latest tweet. When we’re not in bed, that is.” Ryan is standing next to me, glowering, his shadow stretched out over the space between me and Jamey as if it seeks to intimidate. “When we’re in bed, which is most of the time, we don’t talk much.”

“So,” I squeak, “you’ve met, right? At O?” Of course they have. I’m just babbling again. Ryan is touching me for the first time since I fell asleep against him last night, naked and stunned, connected and overjoyed. My heart pitter-patters in my chest, pushing against the body-shaping structure of my dress, as Ryan becomes my world once again, consuming me.

“We’ve met,” Ryan says, holding out his hand. “How’ve you been, Jamey?”

I do a little double take when I actually look at Ryan. He’s wearing a lightweight tan suit, cut for his body, and a crisp white shirt with a light blue tie. His hair, still damp from the shower, is brushed back. He smells like limes and basil. He smells like masculinity. 10.5, headed for 11.

“Never been better, actually.” Some weird tension crackles in the air, which is impossible, right? Because Jamey is gay, so it’s not like there’s any competition between the two men. What would they compete over, anyhow?

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” Ryan looks at me with such unabashed sensuality that even Jamey blushes. “Anyone who’s ever dated Carrie knows that time spent with her can’t be surpassed by anything.”

Jamey’s eyes narrow but he says nothing, looking at me as if this is my fault. As if I’m supposed to step in and fall all over myself to stop Ryan. As if I’m responsible for whatever comes out of my fake boyfriend’s mouth.

As if everything is my fault.

“I really do wish you the best, Jamey,” I whisper, trying not to die inside. Two voices scream inside the echoing cavern of my mind, one telling me to give Jamey my full blast of anger, the other practically begging me to just give in and smooth it all out by sacrificing my dignity.

Or maybe by keeping my dignity. Smoothing it out wins.

Ryan squeezes me, just hard enough to make me gasp. He gives Jamey a dead-on, laser-focused stare.

“Too late, C-Shel. He already had the best.” Then he kisses me on the cheek, pulling me even closer. My pushed-up breast smashes into his chest and the heady scent of his aftershave, soap, and the radiating, pure, righteous fury on my part that is fueling his words all fill my senses.

Unsure and reeling, I act on impulse, standing on tiptoe and turning my face toward his until we’re kissing, his mouth angry, but not at me.

For me.

It’s refreshing to have someone feel something for me.

The kiss is everything I’ve wanted from a partner, a soulmate, a live in-the-flesh man who desires me so much he’ll slide his hand up my back, tangle it in my hair, kiss me breathless and ignore the uncomfortable sounds of people we’re offending by this wild display of naked passion.

I break away, panting, my lips raw.

Because what’s the point? This isn’t real. Last night wasn’t real.

Nothing is real.

Jamey’s feelings for me weren’t real. I mean, he thought they were, but they weren’t. Ryan’s anger might be, but the affection sure isn’t. It’s all an act.

And I’m tired of acting.

“You blew your chance, Jamey. Thank you for that.” Ryan sticks his hand out again while his other arm grips me. Surprised, Jamey takes the handshake out of instinct. I watch Ryan grab hard, his forearm muscles flexing, part of his tattoo peeking out from under his shirt and bulging as his jacket and cuff ride up slightly.

“Uh, hey, man, my pleasure.” Jamey looks confused, but he quickly covers it up, smile tightening to one of irritation, jaw grinding as he realizes what Ryan’s doing.

“Actually,” Ryan says loudly. “The pleasure will be all mine.” He winks. “And Carrie’s, of course." The look he gives me sucks all the air out of my body.

What is he doing? It’s too much. He’s pretending and I’m not, and the pain, oh the pain. My dress is too tight. The world is too heavy. Nothing allows me to breathe because I can’t inhale in a world where what happened last night isn’t real.

“Wedding party!” Jenny’s mom shouts. “Wedding party to the terrace, please, for photos!”

Saved by formalities.

She deftly removes beer bottles from the hands of two ushers and shoos them toward the photographer. Coming to a halt in front of me, her navy blue chiffon sleeves fluttering in the breeze, she frowns.

“Carrie, what has happened to you? Your lipstick is all over your face and your hair is falling down, and we haven’t even started yet! We need to fix you.”

“Someone sure does,” I say under my breath. “Good luck with that.”

She glances at Ryan. “And her lipstick is all over your face, too.” She hands him a tissue from her bag. “Jamey, they’re waiting. Get over there,” she continues, undeterred from her task of rounding everyone up. “You look very handsome, darling. Remember your left side is your best.” She adjusts his boutonnière slightly and moves on toward the photographer’s assistant. They bend their heads together, Jen’s mom gesturing in my direction. The assistant nods, looking concerned.