It’s Friday.

I thought Tyler would call by last Sunday at the latest.

In fact, I thought he would call once he got back to his dump of an apartment on Saturday and realized that the place I found for him is where he belongs.

But he didn’t.

And then he didn’t call Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or Thursday. Now, it’s Friday and he still hasn’t called. It’s been six days. Not that I’m counting.

I’m not going to call him because that’s not how I operate. If you go begging, that makes the client think that the property isn’t a catch. That there’s something wrong with it.

You have to wait it out. But I’ve never waited this long.

I try to ignore the nagging feeling that maybe Tyler won’t call. Maybe that wasn’t the apartment for him. Maybe I was way off on my read. Maybe I’ll never even hear from him again.

I scroll through my emails one last time. I even do a trash mail search. A spam search. Then check my missed calls. Again. Voicemails. Nothing.

Tyler ghosted me, and my commission went poof! Along with him.

But it’s my fault: I shouldn’t have expected more from Tyler. Like I said, the guy doesn’t have rules. Those are the worst type.

Now, I have fourteen minutes to finish getting ready for another faux bachelorette party that I don’t want to attend. I hold up the sequin dress before taking a deep breath and stepping into it. I reach around and zip myself in. I can barely breathe. Leave it to Elsa May to pick Vegas for the theme. She’s definitely on a mission to outdo herself.

I check that my phone’s ringer is on before putting it in my purse and heading down the stairs. I hope Elsa May wouldn’t actually consider sending us to Vegas for the night. Would she?

But when you stop playing by the rules, anything can happen. Like the fact that I’m waiting with bated breath for a call from a guy that I know I have no business caring about.

* * *

“Hold the phone: Lottie Langerman owns sparkles!” Mia proclaims when I arrive at her apartment. “Are these stored away in some naughty treasure chest?”

“Of course I don’t own sequins,” I say. “They are a cleaning nightmare—almost as bad as glitter—and should be reserved for baby ballerinas and call girls. I picked this up an hour ago at the Forever 21 in Union Square for $19.90. I’ll be donating it in the morning to Housing Works.” I look down at my dress. “It’ll probably get one of those call girls a lot of jobs.”

Jane examines her own outfit: a black sequined miniskirt with a black tank. “I borrowed some of Mia’s clothes.” I realize I’ve never seen Jane’s knees before. She has pretty great legs.

“You look awesome,” I say. I’m still in a terrible mood about Tyler not calling, but Jane’s excitement is palpable.

“Lot-tie!” Elsa May screams from Mia’s bedroom. “Come see me!”

I follow Mia. Elsa May is wearing a sequined crop top and a pair of black pants. “I’m showing belly button tonight,” she says. “It might only be fifty degrees, but this is the last bach and I wanted to go all out.”

“That you did,” I say, studying her. In some ways, this sequin-adoring Elsa May is more foreign to me than mama-bear Elsa May.

I watch as her face crumples. “You look amazing,” I backtrack. “I can’t believe you’ve had a baby.”

I also can’t believe that you’ve lost your mind, Elsa May. But I plaster my fake smile on like a favorite accessory.

Elsa May smiles back. “I know you think these bachelorettes are silly, but it feels good to accomplish something beyond teaching Birdie how to say ‘doll’ and ‘ball.’ ”

“Teaching a child language is a big deal,” Mia says.

Elsa May nods. “But it’s nice to do something more tangible. You know, make phone calls to people other than Dora the Explorer, and do more in a day than dress a toddler and visit Target.” She waves her hand like the fairy godmother in Cinderella. “And tonight is going to be my masterpiece.”

“Masterpiece, huh?” I say. “Are we heading to Vegas on a private jet?”

“I already asked,” Mia says, slipping on a sequined, one-shoulder, pink number. “Oh, she priced it out, but it was too expensive, even with our Dazzle-sugar-daddy money.”

“I feel like the stakes are elevated since Jane is writing about all of it,” Elsa May says. “There’s, like, this extra pressure for it to be perfect. Even if Birdie had slept this week, I still wouldn’t have. I’m running on four hours, according to my Fitbit, and pure adrenaline. Plus caffeine. It’s going to be epic.”

That word rubs on me. “Isn’t this whole thing supposed to be about throwing everything to the wind and having fun? Isn’t that why we started?”

Mia looks at Elsa May and laughs. “Did Lottie of all people actually just say that?”

They laugh, but in that catty-girl way. They never laugh at me that way. We laugh at other people like that, not each other.

Elsa May applies another coat of red lipstick, a shade I’ve never seen her wear. “It’s Mia’s,” she explains to me. “I have to stick to the theme.”

“Okay,” I reply.

I think of what Tyler said about women in this city, but then I try to push him out of my mind. I also resist the urge to check my phone. “Hey, Mia,” I say. “Did you ever call Ralph? You know, for, like, business purposes.”

Elsa May raises her eyebrows. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Not yet,” Mia says. She touches her cheek to her shoulder and blushes.

“Okay, you two catch up,” Elsa May says. “I’m going to make the Clover Clubs, a popular drink in Vegas.”

“Clover Clubs?” I repeat. “Where does she get this stuff?”

“Go easy on her,” Mia snaps. “This means something to her.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say defensively. I pull my dress down. I hate wearing clothes like this. I feel worse than I did when I walked in the door.

“I know you didn’t,” Mia says, sitting on her chevron-print comforter. “But Elsa May’s sensitive these days.”

“And I don’t know that?” I say. “Elsa May and I have been best friends since we were eighteen.” I feel like a fourth grader arguing on a playground.

“Let’s drop it,” Mia says. “We should go have some clover cocktails or whatever they’re called.”

I try to shake the feeling that Mia and I are in a fight, and that somehow Elsa May is also annoyed with me. This is why I didn’t want to go through with this whole ordeal in the first place. When you play games like this, stuff happens. Bad stuff.

I smile, trying to change my own attitude. “So what is going on with Ralph?”

“I told him,” she says, her fake eyelashes batting.

“The truth?”

She laughs. “He said he thought he was getting a weird vibe that night. He found the whole thing pretty hysterical and loved it. We’re going out on Tuesday.”

“That’s so great,” I say to Mia. “So he didn’t care?”

“Nope. And we’ve talked like three times on the phone.” She pauses dramatically. “Like on the real phone. I call an actual landline, connected to a brick and mortar wall.”

I smile, this time genuinely. This bachelorette thing can’t be all bad if it’s helped pull Mia out of her rut.

“Who are you?” I ask.

Mia laughs. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, but I’m okay with that.”

For the first time in my life, I’m wondering if it’s better not to know who you are.

Mia stops in the doorway and turns around to me: “Hey, did you cash your commission check yet from that guy Tyler? I can’t believe you’ve made money off this whole thing. So very Lottie of you.”

I shake my head. “Oh, it didn’t work out,” I admit.

She opens her mouth to say something, but closes it before remarking with a shrug, “Too bad. I guess even when you’re Lottie, there’s still going to be that one that gets away.”

I nod in agreement as my stomach drops.

“Just like with Rock,” I say.

Mia puts her arm around me. “I didn’t mean him,” she says. “I meant the commission.”

I nod. “Yes, that too,” I say. “You know how I hate losing,” I say, recovering.

Mia nods and gives me a squeeze. I think maybe even she knows there’s more to it than a lost fee.

* * *

“Our chariot is waiting,” Elsa May says, downing the rest of her Clover Club, which turned out to be a dangerous concoction of gin and egg whites. I wanted to say no since gin is the only alcohol that’s ever made me sick, but I didn’t want to get called out for being a party pooper.

“Our chariot?” Jane repeats.

“You didn’t!” Mia squeals, looking out the apartment’s third-story window down onto Twenty-Eighth Street. “A stretch Hummer. No way. People are going to think we’re, like, P. Diddy.”

I join her at the window. Not only is it a stretch Hummer, it’s a pink stretch Hummer.

“Oh, I went there,” Elsa May answers, putting her arms around us. “The limo is a symbol of the bachelorette. How could Jane write the proper story without the proper resources?”

I turn and watch Jane blush. “Thanks, Elsa May,” she says. “I never did prom and the whole limo . . . This will be my first time.”

“That makes it even better,” Elsa May proclaims. “Please hand over the faux bachelorette worksheet. We need to study the details in the car. It’s important we have our stories straight, especially tonight.”

Jane shyly relinquishes her worksheet that she’s been laboring on for the past hour. We all gather around to listen while Mia reads it out loud:

Jane’s Dream Man:

He’ll be a fellow professor. He won’t be in the same department. Perhaps Literature or History. But he’ll understand feminist theory nearly as well as I do.

We’ll marry quickly and get tenure the same year.

We’ll both be highly regarded in our fields. Perhaps he’ll even publish a novel that’s commended for its refreshing take on gender roles.

How We Met:

We’ll start as colleagues at NYU who met at a faculty orientation party. He’ll stop by my office every few days and we’ll eventually become good friends. I’ll try to set him up with another professor only to find myself jealous when they go out. I’ll confess my feelings to him and he’ll admit that he feels the same way.

Dream Wedding:

Our wedding will be literary themed and will be held at my favorite restaurant in Brooklyn, Blanca’s. There will be candles on all the tables and the cake will look like a stack of our favorite books. I’ll wear my mother’s vintage gown and he’ll wear a gray suit. Only a harp will play. There will be no Electric Slide or conga line. It will rain lightly as we leave and he’ll carry me over a large puddle into a waiting cab.

When Mia finishes reading, Elsa May applauds. “So great,” she says, repeating the major details. She has the best memory; it’s what would’ve made her a great lawyer. “I always knew you were a romantic,” she says.

Elsa May reaches deep into her overnight bag. “Wait. The bachelorette crown.” She places it on top of Jane’s head; Jane beams. “I never played dress-up as a kid,” she admits. “My parents are professors and are philosophically opposed to the whole princess construct. Is it terrible if I admit it’s sort of fun?”

Mia pulls out her fancy DSLR camera and zooms the lens in and out. “I’m bringing the big boy out tonight. If Dazzle uses any of my photos, I’ll get a credit. I wonder if that’d earn me points with Ralph . . .”

I look at Mia. This whole thing is blowing up too big. “Don’t worry,” Mia adds. “All the pictures are just going to be of our Jane.”

“Let’s go,” Elsa May says impatiently.

I’m about to fake a migraine to get out of this when Jane turns to me. “Thanks,” she says. “For doing this.”

“Sure.” I reluctantly follow the trail of sequins out the door.

* * *

Despite myself, I check my emails and missed calls again when we’re stuck in gridlock in the limo. Still nothing. My pristine record might be about to go up in smoke. Thanks to Tyler. I should’ve listened to my gut and not gotten involved.

In fact, I should’ve never agreed to the first bachelorette party to begin with.

This is actually Elsa May’s fault. If she hadn’t hatched this great idea, then I would have never met Tyler. Maybe I’d even be dating that handsome Brit, Harry.

And my life would still make sense.

I finish my glass of champagne and wait for the bubbles to go to my head. Maybe then I’ll feel better.

Once we finally reach our secret destination, I take our driver Frank’s hand and step down out of the limo. Looking up at the maroon awning, I feel my mouth drop. “We’re going to Sparks?” Sparks is a ridiculously expensive—and iconic—steakhouse in Midtown East. It’s famous for its beef, its history, and the fact that mobster Paul Castellano was gunned down outside it in 1985. I’ve only been once, when Rock and my parents met for the first time. Basically, the place is high roller and reserved for special occasions.

Elsa May hops out of the limo. “Pretty fabulous, right? What’s hotter than a bunch of ladies taking themselves out to a steakhouse sans men? I like sushi and salads and all, but sometimes, I want a bloody steak. Plus, this is on Dazzle, and fits the theme.”

“I’ve always wanted to go here,” Mia and Jane say unison.

“Consider that bucket-list item checked,” says Elsa May. “And remember, everyone, Jane’s fiancé is Andrew. They met at work, and the small, intimate wedding is being held at Blanca’s in Brooklyn.”

“We got it,” we say. Elsa May has only drilled this into our heads through the entire drive over here. She even took liberties and embellished from Jane’s worksheet. Jane didn’t seem to mind, though.

When we walk into the dark restaurant, with its white tablecloths and old-school wooden chairs, the entire population of the testosterone-filled space turns their heads.

“Were the sequins really necessary?” I ask.

Elsa May wraps her arm around Mia and rolls her eyes. I try to remind myself to play along. Calm down, Anxious Lottie. Tomorrow, Tyler will call, and you’ll rent the apartment and close this entirely weird chapter of your life.

I just wish I could convince myself the same way I can usually BS my clients.

The maître d’ leads us to a round table in the center of the room. Within a minute, a bow-tie-adorned waiter is carrying over a bottle of champagne and a bucket of ice.

I look at Elsa May and she mouths: “Not me.”

“From the gentlemen at table forty-two,” the waiter says. A table full of white-haired men—our fathers’ ages—waves back at us. “It’s the finest cava in all of Spain.”

Jane gives a shy wave back. “Would it be okay if I take notes? I don’t want to miss any of these details.”

“Don’t worry,” Mia says. “We can rehash all together. We’ll remember everything, or at least until midnight.” She holds up her flute. “Here’s to our beautiful bride-to-be,” she says, clinking Jane’s glass. We all hold up our own glasses and toast across the table. I can’t help but notice that Elsa May doesn’t look at me when our glasses tap.

I hear my phone ringing, so I scramble to reach into my purse and silence it before excusing myself to the bathroom. Yes, I have a rule about phones at tables, even at faux bachelorette parties. Even when it might be Tyler.

By the time I reach the bathroom, I’m breathless.

I fish my phone from my purse like it’s going to explode.

“Hello,” I say urgently. But no one is on the other line. I’m too late. There’s just silence.

I look at my phone’s screen.

MISSED CALL. TYLER.

I curse him for being unprofessional. Who calls a broker on a Friday night? A week after the last contact? I wait a few seconds, but no voicemail appears.

Do I call him back? Does that look desperate? Maybe it was a pocket dial.

Calm down Lottie, I tell myself. This is about an apartment. Tyler thinks you’re engaged, I remind myself.

I look around the empty bathroom. I can’t call him here. Someone might come in and flush a toilet.

Talk about unprofessional. And embarrassing.

I leave the bathroom and motion to the girls that I need to make a phone call outside. Even from a distance, I swear I can see them roll their eyes. I want to give a lecture on how my work comes before the hoopla and make believe, but I don’t want to become persona non grata. Not more than I already am tonight.

Out on the curb, I tell myself it’s the champagne that’s causing my heart to race. I press Tyler’s contact info.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

Maybe it was a mistake. Pocket dials happen, right?

Four rings.

Does he not even have voicemail? Who is he?

“Lottie,” Tyler finally says. His voice is even and thin. “Thanks for calling me back.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. I firmly believe the person who says the least wins.

“I’ve thought it over,” he says. “And I want the apartment. Is it still available?”

I pause for a couple of beats, so he can feel a little of what I felt all week. “You know, real estate in New York doesn’t wait for anyone,” I say. “If you wanted it, you should’ve let me know right away.” I wait.

“Oh,” Tyler says with a disappointed sigh.

I hate hearing him sad, even over the phone.

“But you’re a lucky guy, because yes, it is still available,” I say.

“Excellent,” he says. “You had me scared there for a second. I can meet tomorrow and do the paperwork if you’re around.”

“Okay,” I say.

“And sorry about calling on a Friday. I needed time to think on it.”

I pause.

“You aren’t at another bachelorette party, are you?” Tyler asks.

I give him my most hearty laugh. “Of course not,” I say. “We can meet at that coffee shop Caffeinated—the one right across from your new place—at ten a.m.”

“Sounds good,” Tyler says.

I pause. “One more thing,” I say.

“Uh-huh?” Tyler says.

We both pause.

“Congratulations,” I finally say. “I think you’re going to be really happy there.”

“Thanks, Lottie,” Tyler says. Was it just me, or did he seem a little disappointed? “See you tomorrow.”

I put my phone back in my purse. I thought that I would be elated, but I’m not. It’s almost as if I wished he were calling for something else.

Don’t be crazy, Lottie, I tell myself. He thinks you’re engaged. And neither of us would have any real interest even if he didn’t. You rented the apartment. You’re going to get your commission. Your record stays intact. And soon, everything will go back to normal.

When I return to the table, the girls are drinking out of the dreaded penis straws and laughing. I want to say “Oh, come on,” because I’m sick of pretending, but I hold my tongue. The night is still young.

* * *

A very-high-three-digit meal later, we’re back in the pink Hummer.

Mia lies down dramatically on the fuchsia, leather, wraparound seat. “I’m going to pop a sequin,” she proclaims, rubbing her stomach.

Elsa May lies down next to her. “We had to say yes to the dessert and Irish coffees, though. They were on the house, after all.”

“I feel like a prisoner who just had her last meal,” Jane says. “But Elsa May, I loved the dining choice. It totally went against gender expectations. Great call.”

Elsa May shoots up like a soldier called back to duty. “Now, girls, we’re off to a place we haven’t been before. It’s as classic bachelorette as this limo.”

“The strip club,” Jane shouts. She really has a thing.

Elsa May shakes her head and then raises the roof. “We’re going untz-untz clubbing.” I want to burst out laughing. Elsa May and I are not the type of people you find in clubs. In fact, I don’t think either of us has ever been in a New York club. Of course, shows like Sex and the City make you think that in New York you club the way you take the subway, but most people I know rarely frequent them.

“What club?” Mia asks. Mia is not a stranger to the club scene, but she usually goes with her other friends. She knows Elsa May and I are too boring for clubbing.

“The Boom Boom Room,” Elsa May answers. They both squeal like teenage girls spotting a member of One Direction.

The Boom Boom Room is the club on top of the Standard Hotel in the Meatpacking District. I’m acquainted with it from my work reading, Us Weekly. It’s a lair for people like the Kardashians, the newest “It girl”, and of course, all of the city’s notorious playboys.

“Not to be a buzzkill,” I say. “But will we even get in?”

Elsa May literally shoos me with her hand. “Of course. We have a table booked. And chilled vodka and bottle service waiting.”

I shrug. “Sorry. I just thought you had to be on a TV show or know someone very important.”

“And I don’t know anyone important?” Elsa May asks, clearly offended. “Am I not important just because I have a kid and live in the suburbs?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. “C’mon, you know that.”

Elsa May lowers her voice while Mia and Jane pretend to sightsee out the window. “Tonight isn’t about you, Lottie. This is Jane’s night. Now play along and be fun.”

I literally have no words about how my best friend is speaking to me, so I pour myself another champagne and watch the lights out the window.

I might still have a perfect record when it comes to renting apartments, but it seems like I’m failing everywhere else.

* * *

I follow the group up the elevator, past the huge line of people waiting to get in, and find a seat at our VIP table. My new plan is just to say nothing until this awful night is over. Then Elsa May will hopefully return to her normal, sane self, go and take the bar exam, or find some hobby other than this. She’s become the She-Devil of bachelorettes.

We’ve barely been sitting at our posh table overlooking both the New Jersey and the New York skylines for five minutes when I hear a young voice say, “Professor Whitman?”

I turn and Jane is literally hiding her face in her hands, the same way Birdie does when she plays peekaboo. A young college-age guy is standing at our table. He looks somewhere between amused and terrified.

“Professor Whitman?” he repeats.

Jane uncovers her face. “Oh, hi, Scott. I can’t say I was expecting to run into anyone I knew here tonight.”

He smirks and shows a mouthful of toothpaste-commercial-white teeth. Jane’s student is a hottie. “Professor Whitman, lots of NYU students go here.” Then his face turns red. “Well, just the legal ones. But I’ve never seen a professor here. This is a first, and I’m not going to lie—I can’t believe it’s you.”

Jane looks to Mia and Elsa May to help her out. “It’s her bachelorette party,” Elsa May explains. “Want to sit down and have a drink? Assuming you’re legal and all.”

“I’m twenty-two,” Scott says seriously. “I’ve been legal for fourteen months.”

I try not to laugh at his exact math, and I watch Jane cringe as Scott takes a seat right next to her.

“Nice crown,” he says. “I didn’t know you were engaged.” He looks at the triad diamond ring that Mia borrowed for Jane. “Nice rocks too.”

Elsa May leans over and whispers, “I was hoping for a celebrity encounter . . .” She pauses. “But this is even better. This is epic.” That word has truly become like nails on a chalkboard. As funny as this whole scene is, I want to go home. It’s already edging past my self-imposed bedtime, and I can’t shake this awkwardness between Elsa May and me.

And I have to wake up early to see Tyler tomorrow.

I rub my temples before standing up. “Hey, ladies. I’m not feeling well. Can I get a rain check? I think this will all go perfectly without me.”

Elsa May looks at me like I’m a stranger. “But this isn’t even our last stop.”

I hold my stomach. “I don’t feel well,” I repeat.

Mia shrugs. “How about you stay at our place tonight, Elsa May? Your bag is there anyways.”

She nods. “Okay,” she says, bending down to pick up and half throw, half hand me my purse.

I fumble to catch it. Who is she? I turn to leave, but then I hesitate. “It’s obviously not okay,” I say loudly enough that even Scott turns around.

“Outside, now. We need to talk,” Elsa May says to me. “I’ll be right back,” she says in a sweet-as-honey voice to Scott, Jane, and Mia. She’s treating me like I’m her child. Scratch that—she’s much nicer to Birdie.

We collect our things from the coat check and silently ride the elevator down to the ground floor. Elsa May and I have been in exactly one fight, and it was over her decision to quit the newspaper in college. I wanted her to do it with me, and she went behind my back and dropped out. The whole fight lasted but a day. It ended with us making Kraft mac and cheese and watching an entire season of The O.C.

Somehow, I don’t think that’s how tonight is going to end. I don’t think this is that simple.

We walk through the hotel out into the cold winter air. Out on the cobblestone streets of the Meatpacking District, twenty-and thirtysomethings shiver and shake their way to different bars and restaurants. I sit on the curb, which is something I would normally never do since it’s dirty and disgusting. But my feet hurt, I’m exhausted, and I’m giving this trashy dress away tomorrow anyway. Elsa May sits down beside me but leaves enough space between us that I feel our distance, in more ways than one.

“What’s wrong, Lottie?” she asks. “What’s the big deal about doing this one more night and having some fun?”

“Wake-up call: I’m not fun.” I point at her. “And you of all people know this. That’s why we’re friends. Let’s face it. Neither of us is particularly fun. We’re smart. We’re determined. But we’re not fun. Mia’s fun. Not us.” I point to our sequins. “This is not us.”

Elsa May smiles, which irks me further. “But why can’t it be us? Don’t you ever wonder if you wasted a lot of your life living by the rules? Hell, I wasted my twenties buried in tort textbooks for a job I’m never going to do.”

Now Elsa May’s swearing?

I turn my legs to face her. “Birdie’s only eight months. You have plenty of time to practice law.”

Elsa May shakes her head. “It’s not just Birdie. Sure, sometimes I get bored at home. But the reason I’m not practicing law”—she pauses and looks at me with tears in her eyes—“that’s all about me. If I wanted to do law, I would be doing it already. I could’ve studied for and taken the bar by now.” She shrugs. “But planning these parties has further proved to me that I wouldn’t have been happy as a lawyer. If anything, Birdie saved me from a life of doing what I thought I should do.” She pauses. “Looking back, I decided to become a lawyer because my parents told me I should. It was like I was on a moving escalator and too afraid to get off and figure out how to walk on my own.”

“Are you happy now?”

Elsa May buttons her coat. “It might not seem like it, Lottie, but I actually am happy. I complain about being a mom, but I love it, especially since I still can come in on weekends and have fun with you guys. And this bachelorette thing—I know it’s all a hoax—but it’s fun for me.” She smiles again. “It might have started as a way to cheer you up, but I love it. The creativity, the control, the details. Everything. It makes me feel something that the law never did. Excited. And happy.”

I point to the Boom Boom Room, perched above us. “But this is all pretend. This isn’t real. We’re playing dress-up like a bunch of little girls with a costume box.”

“So maybe no one is actually getting married. So what? Just because we’re almost thirty doesn’t mean we can’t be silly and have fun.”

“You’re already married with a kid,” I argue. “I’m single. This is becoming a waste of my time.” I stick out my pout. “I like my schedule. I like my rules. I like feeling like I’m getting something done.”

“I’m your best friend,” Elsa May says. “So let me be the one to tell you this. You have your entire life to live on a schedule.” She sighs. “But you’re never going to find someone if you keep it up with that rules stuff. That’s a defense mechanism you use, so that you can feel like you’re in control. You’ve been this way forever. You think if you take one step away from your carefully crafted life plan, the world will crumble.”

“Um, hello,” I say, waving. “Ever since this all faux bachelorette witchcraft started, my life has become a total mess.”

“Maybe,” Elsa May says slowly, “this whole thing is making you realize that you weren’t all that happy before. Maybe that’s why you’re so upset.”

“Thanks, Dr. Phil. So pretending to be engaged is the answer?”

“No,” she says. “But loosening up is. Why don’t you call that Tyler guy and tell him the truth? Hell, just tell dreamy Brit Harry the truth.” She makes a serious frown, the same one she made whenever she was studying. “Tell someone the truth. Screw it, I’m your best friend, so I’ll tell it to you. You need to stop being so worried about everything going the way you’ve planned it and start actually living.”

The idea of telling Tyler the truth makes my stomach drop.

I push myself off the curb and stand up. “I know your plans didn’t work out,” I say sharply, “but that doesn’t mean mine won’t.” I point in the direction of the club. “Why don’t you go back to your party? After all, that’s what this is, right? Your party.”

Elsa May dusts off. “So now you’re Dr. Phil? You know what, Lottie? While I genuinely like the planning aspects, I started doing it because of you. You needed this way more than I ever did. You were still so stuck on Rock.”

I shrug. “Rock had a lot going for him,” I say. “I’m going to find someone like Rock. I’m okay waiting for someone who has everything I want.”

Elsa May throws up her hands. “Rock was an asshole,” she says. She shrugs. “There, I said it. He may have filled every box you dreamed of, but he wasn’t a nice person. And he wasn’t fun. Rock is the same as my law degree. He’s who you think you should be with, but you all weren’t even good together. It was always about how great Rock was at his job and how he was everything you dreamed about, but it was never about how he made you feel.”

“He made me feel safe,” I say.

“Until he got up and left,” Elsa May says. She reaches out for me and I scoot away. She shrugs. “Lottie, I’m not some client you’re trying to sell on a shitty apartment. You can be honest with me.”

I don’t respond.

“Sometimes, Lottie, we aren’t always right—even about our own lives. Believe me, I know,” Elsa May says with a tear in her eye.

“Well, thanks for letting me know,” I say. I’m completely fed up with Elsa May, these parties, and feeling so out of control. Everything was fine until all this started. I look at her and without thinking I spit out: “I guess I was also wrong about us being best friends.”

Her face drops into the saddest expression I’ve seen in a decade of knowing her.

Without another word, I flag down the nearest cab. I would normally walk from here since it’s not very far, but I need to be home now. And out of these sequins.