“Forever,” she whispers.

They share a smile that makes my chest hurt. A deep breath just pushes the pain around, the buttoned business shirt under my suit jacket straining, my tie trying to kill me.

Everything feels tight. Close. Claustrophobic.

“Excuse me,” I tell them, turning and walking away before Nick or Chloe can respond. I need air. Ignore the fact that I’m on the beach and a giant breeze is blowing.

I need space.

From my own emotions.

As I guzzle unsweetened ice tea from a big glass dispenser with lemon, lime, mint and cucumber slices — an entire produce section — floating in it, I look up just as the sun hides behind one of the rare clouds in the sky, making the line of men and women in the wedding party stand out against the clear, cerulean sky.

Carrie’s on the very end, her skirt elegant, angled just so, laughing with such unrestrained joy I damn near can’t stand it. She’s captivating, a vision of pure abundance and love, her raucous, unremitting happiness the closest I’ll ever come to seeing heaven.

Assuming I make it there.

A man could die in the middle of watching her laughing on the wind and be complete.

But I want more.

“Food’s getting set up,” Zeke says, suddenly appearing behind me, offering up a craft beer from some brewery in Maine.

“You’re drinking already? The wedding is about to start!” As I judge him, I realize he’s onto something.

He smirks. I take the beer and drink half. Why not? Liquid courage might come in handy later.

As I finish my guzzling, the back of my neck tingles. A drop of ice-cold water from the bottle’s condensation drips on my wrist. I don’t react.

Zeke’s staring at me.

“What?”

“You did it, didn’t you?”

“Did what?”

“Got laid.”

I stare back.

He chuckles, a deeply annoying sound that makes me want to break the bottle and slice his vocal cords. The noise reminds me of being bullied, of the grunts of derision kids made on the playground, the mocking huff of someone judging you for being earnest.

Real.

Yourself.

“You did, didn’t you? You’re looser. Distracted, but all that tension you’ve carried in your shoulders is gone.” Wink. “Drained right out of you.” He lets out a low whistle. “Carrie any good in bed?”

The smell of beer and shock fills my nostrils as I grab Zeke’s shirt collar, in his face, whispering in a deadly rasp, “You don’t talk about her like that.”

We’re frozen, eye to eye, toe to toe. I’m a big guy. Zeke’s a big guy.

Big guys can do a lot of damage to each other.

“I’m not your enemy, mate,” he says in a controlled voice, the tone we reserve for the angry husbands who discover their wives are frequenting O.

“And I’m not some wuss you make fun of, dude. Lay off.”

He holds his palms up, eyes round, the skin across his forehead folding with real emotion. “I’m sorry. I am. Crossed a line.”

I let go of him.

“You did.”

“You’re really in love with her, aren’t you?” He asks with a tone of what I swear is reverence. Impossible.

“Yes,” I confess.

“Man.”

“I know.” As we stand down from nearly shredding each other, we go back to that easy friendship that comes from giving no fucks. I’m done. I just don’t care anymore about pretending when it comes to my feelings.

“Must be nice.”

“It’s not. It’s torture.”

Suddenly, in the distance, the entire wedding party leaps in the air, squealing and shouting. Giggles and good-natured male laughter fill the air, carried to us by a thick breeze.

“I mean it, Ryan. Sorry. Good for you.” He seems dejected.

“Why are you acting like we’re at a funeral and not a wedding?” I’m calming down. Zeke’s not my opponent. Jamey isn’t either. No one is, really.

Aside from me. I’m my own biggest obstacle.

A quick head shake and he’s back to grinning. “I’m not at a funeral or a wedding. I’m at a wake.”

“A wake? For who?”

“For your poor cock. Paying my respects, because it’s about to get tied down, and once you’re tied down, might as well be dead.” He salutes my crotch by touching the mouth of his beer to his forehead.

“You are so fucking weird.”

“As long as I’m fucking at all, mate. Call me whatever you want.”

Carrie makes her way toward us slowly, stopping to chat with the other wedding party members, then with Jenny’s mom and dad.

“You gonna tell her? Or did you already?”

“Tell her what?”

“The truth about how you feel.”

“I will. I just…”

“What?”

“Need to make sure she feels the same way.”

“You are a wuss, Ryan. Have you seen the way Carrie looks at you? Of course she feels the same way. What more do you need? A billboard in Times Square?”

“I know. I guess. I — ”

“She fucked you, right?”

I bristle. “We didn’t fuck.”

“I thought you said…”

“We made love.”

I deserve his groan. I do. Even having this conversation with Zeke would have been impossible a few days ago. Who opens up to an asshole like him?

Me. I’m that desperate. Not desperate enough to talk it out with one of my sisters, but spilling my guts to Zeke is damn close.

“You’re together, then?” Zeke asks, stuffing a giant bacon-wrapped shrimp in his mouth. The reception has been moved outdoors, with no need for a tent. He’s filching food before it’s officially set up, but Zeke clearly subscribes to the idea that it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.

“Together?” Even my own voice sounds idiotic.

“Real boyfriend and girlfriend? No more of this fake shit?” Smugness radiates from his pores. “I knew this would work.”

“Knew what would work?”

“Convincing you to be her pretend date.”

“You give yourself way too much credit. I was already thinking about offering. Besides, we’re still not together.”