I stare down at the vanilla envelope in my hands and tenderly run my fingers over the embossed letters. I’ve always known this day was a possibility. On some far-off indeterminate date, I even expected it to happen. Of course, in my head when this day came I’d be happily married to a successful, gorgeous man, and I’d smile fondly at the envelope and know that this was right. It was good, and it was meant to be.

None of this is supposed to happen three months after breaking up with my ex. Not when my best friend began dating said ex just a month later, and certainly not while I was still single.

I hadn’t meant to down half a bottle of wine in my tiny kitchen after I’d walked through the door of my apartment in the West Village. I’d stared at the offending envelope for entirely too long as it lay on my counter, and then I’d started on the rest of the wine before deciding I couldn’t put it off any longer. I’d slipped a letter opener in one corner and yanked the blade through. The heavy paper had opened on a sigh and I’d stared down at the card inside.

Poppy,

I can’t say I do without you.

Be my maid of honor?

I let the invitation flutter to the ground, and I reach for the bottle. Again. My phone rings, and for a moment I contemplate throwing it out the window, but I just got it. Instead, I glare at it along with the rest of the contents that have spilled from my bag. Breath mints, my planner, a planner with my boss, Jacinta’s, daily schedule, headphones, lipstick, compact, Tampax, candy ... ooh, candy. With fumbling hands, I rip into the York Peppermint Patties and shove a few in my mouth—I always keep a packet of minis in my purse for those brides who like to skip meals and who might need a sugar hit to avoid passing out.

I pick up my phone, set it down, and then I lift it to my ear and finally hit answer before I can chicken out. I have a mouthful of Pattie all smooshed up around my teeth and gums, so it sounds like Scooby Doo took to answering my calls. “Harrow?”

“Oh my God, Poppy! I thought you were never going to answer. Did you get it?” The overly excited voice belongs to my best friend, or former best friend. I’m not really sure what we are now considering she’s marrying my ex-fiancé.

I’m not bitter about it. I mean, I might have been if he’d cheated on me, but Chase and I didn’t end that way. We’d been together so long we finished each other’s sandwiches, but somewhere along the way Chase and I just fell apart. I had a great career, and a great apartment in the city I loved, but a great fiancé? Not so much. If I hadn’t been so focused on my job, if I’d paid more attention to us or if we’d just made more time for one another in our busy schedules, then maybe we’d still be together. Perhaps I just couldn’t give him what he needed.

“Poppy, are you there?”

I shoo Castiel—one of my three cats—off the white leather dining chair and sit heavily on the seat. “What?”

“Did you get it? My invitation?”

“Er, no. What invitation?” I don’t know why I’m lying through my teeth. The thing was delivered to my workplace, and I had to sign for it, so there’s every chance she already knows I have it.

“The invitation to be my maid of honor? Are you sure you didn’t get it, because the messenger service said it was delivered.”

“Oh, that.” I nod as if she can see me, lift the wine bottle to my lips and gulp back more of the refreshing Moscato. “I . . . isn’t it a little . . . soon? I mean, you just started dating Chase a month ago. That’s an awfully big commitment to make in one month.”

“Two months,” she corrects, and again, I nod. Only when I do the math, that can’t be right. I distinctly remember she told me a month.

“You said one.”

She makes a scoffing sound. “Who cares? I’m getting married!” she shrieks. “Poppy, you have to say yes. I can’t get through this without you.”

“Yes, you can,” I mutter. It seems Claire has done just fine without me.

“What?”

“Um, sorry, my head is in the clouds today, but I’m so excited for you. Of course I’ll be your maid of honor. I’m honored. Huh, honor, honored.” I laugh nervously. I think I might pass out, or puke up the sushi I ate for lunch.

“Great. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

“Never.”

“Okay, God, we have so much to organize. So, the wedding is in a month—”

“A month?” Was she crazy? No one plans the biggest day of their lives in a month. It’s wedding suicide. You can’t even get a decent cake in New York in that time, let alone flowers, invitations, the venue, cars, a dress ... oh my God ... who is she going to wear?

I tear the wrapper off another Mint Pattie and stuff it in my mouth so I don’t faint, breathing through my nose as calmly and evenly as possible.

“Yep, one month. I’ll have the planner email you everything you need to know about rehearsals and fittings and—”

“Planner?” I say, and my voice sounds very far away. The one thing I was put on this earth for. The one thing that I’m successful enough to be up for a promotion as partner for, and she takes it away from me?

“You hired another wedding planner?”

“Well, we’re still using your firm, but Jacinta is apparently already working a high-profile wedding that weekend, so ... she mentioned Katherine was going to be our senior planner.”

“Katherine,” I say in a calm, even tone, but on the inside? I’m plotting all the ways I could fake my own death before the month is out.

“You’re mad, aren’t you? I told Chase you’d be mad. It’s just with you being in the party, and given that you dated the groom, I didn’t want to make it any more awkward than it already is. It’s not awkward, right?”

Dated? Dated? I was with him for seven years. I was going to marry the man, and spend the rest of my life with him ... well, before I discovered that I didn’t always like Chase telling me what to do, and the man could throw some Russell Crowe-sized temper tantrums—only without all that rugged facial hair and gruff Australian accent.

“Poppy?” she prompts.

“No, it’s not awkward at all.” Not. One. Bit.

“Oh, I knew you’d understand. It’s going to be amazing, Poppy, just like we talked about as kids. We’re getting married in the Maldives.” My stomach twists with rage and there’s a strange acidic taste in my mouth that wasn’t there before. Breathe, Poppy. In and out. In and out. In and . . . the Maldives? The fucking Maldives. I’m getting married in the Maldives, or at least, I was. That was my dream wedding-cation. Mine.

Ever so slowly, a ringing starts up in my ears. It’s soft at first, a low hum, and then, as my blood begins to boil, the ringing increases. I drop the phone. Just drop it and walk calmly over to the freezer where I keep a bottle of vodka. I slowly unscrew the cap, lift it to my lips, and guzzle as much as I can without throwing up.

When I’m done, I unleash one hell of a scream and circle back to my phone where I proceed to stomp on it in my new Alexander McQueen velvet pumps until the screen dies and gives way to black. I’m not proud of this moment, but sometimes you just have to stand your ground—or stand on your smart phone, as the case may be. I drag the bottle of vodka to my bedroom and lock myself away where not even the judgmental glares from Sam, Dean, and Castiel can find me.