The only reason I even agreed to come to Drew’s engagement party was so I could see if his fiancée is prettier than me.

This may not paint me in the most flattering light, but I’m not going to start lying this early in my story. Maybe later. I’ll be sure to let you know.

At any rate, it’s also important to note that Kari talked me into it. She said we’d come have a look and I’d feel better. “Jenna,” she said, “you have to face this. You’ll feel better.”

That’s classic Kari. Unlike me, she’s fearless.

So we’re at Jacks Wild on 5^th Street. Kari and I are standing at the bar, and the cool air from the open doorway is a constant reminder that it’s not summer anymore. I love fall, but it means winter is closing in. Knowing that Drew will ring in 2005 married to someone else is too depressing for words.

It doesn’t help at all that the fiancée is prettier than me—gorgeous, in fact. All long legs and milky skin and acres of red hair.

I didn’t even know that Drew liked redheads.

The fiancée’s name is Gertrude. She goes by Trudi—with an i. The invitation said Hey! Drew and Trudi are getting married! Come celebrate with us. I didn’t feel much like celebrating when I first saw the invitation, and I still don’t.

But here I am. Damn Kari.

“Jenna, there’s no way this can last,” Kari tells me emphatically. “She’s his rebound, you know. Don’t worry about it.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I say. “This plan of yours doesn’t seem to be working. He literally hasn’t noticed I’m here.”

“That’s because he’s an idiot,” she says—which doesn’t even make much sense, but Kari’s been pretty hard on Drew this past year.

She pours the rest of her drink down her throat and waves the empty glass at the bartender. He’s deep in conversation with some guy in a blue plaid shirt, but he sees her gesture and slides down the bar like Tom Cruise in Cocktail, only taller and better looking and Latino—so, not like Tom Cruise at all, really. Anyway, he mixes her another Cosmo, quick and precise in his movements, and lifts an eyebrow at me. I shake my head—I still have half of mine—and he heads back down to the other end of the bar to resume his conversation.

Turning away from Kari, I sip my Cosmo and glare at Gertrude over the rim of my glass. She’s wearing a pale green babydoll dress that shows off her fabulous legs. Vera Wang, I’d bet my next paycheck on it. Which, now that I consider, just might cover it.

I own a Vera Wang dress, which I have never worn. I bought it last year on clearance, when it was already a season out of date, but it still cost twice what I have any right to spend on a dress, so I’m afraid to wear it. It just hangs in my closet and taunts me.

Gertrude has that look about her; I have a feeling she’ll drop hers beside the bed or kick it into a corner when she gets home.

Home. To Drew’s apartment. Which used to be my apartment, until I asked Drew where our relationship was going and he said (using a good many more words): Nowhere.

“Rebound or not,” I say, “he’s going to marry her.”

“He proposed,” Kari counters. “That doesn’t necessarily make marriage a foregone conclusion.” She turns and sneers in Gertrude’s direction. “She’s in for one hell of a surprise when he decides he’s not ready after all.”

That’s why I love Kari. She’s willing to bend the very fabric of reality in order to say something that might make me feel better. She can’t stand Drew—since the breakup, he’s dead to her—but she also hates the fiancée, because that’s what best friends do.

As for Drew not following through on his proposal—well, she doesn’t know him very well. Drew is nothing if not decisive. I ought to know, since he was pretty decisive when he told me he wasn’t going to marry me.

“We’ll see,” I say, trying to sound like the whole thing doesn’t bother me at all. Kari is the best friend I’ve ever had, but not even to her can I confide all the doubts and questions inside me. Starting with Why wasn’t I good enough? “It’s none of my business anymore anyway.”

She nods and looks proud of me. I put my glass, which has magically become empty again, on the bar.

Immediately, the bartender is there. “Refill?”

I open my mouth to answer, but Kari cuts me off. “Hey,” she says, pointing her half-empty Cosmo at the bartender, “do I know you?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“You look really familiar.”

“Familiar how?”

“Have I seen you on TV?” she asks.

He smiles. “Do you watch Midnight Confessions?”

Dear God. Why couldn’t he have asked any other question? I adore Kari, but she has this thing about soap operas; it’s a little abnormal, really. She’s obsessed. She’s on the internet literally every day discussing and dissecting the entire ABC lineup with other fans—I kid you not. And a couple of times a year she meets up with her online pals and goes on these trips to meet various soap stars. It makes her happy, so I’m careful not to say anything negative, but if I’m not careful she’ll talk to me about it for hours.

I love her, but a person can only stand so much, even in the name of friendship.

Anyway, it’s too late; Kari is nodding enthusiastically. “I’ve watched for years!”

“I play a bartender at The Roadhouse sometimes.” He has the good grace to look a little embarrassed—if Kari didn’t recognize him right away, it must be a pretty small part—but he does look pleased to have been recognized.

Or it may just be that Kari is beautiful and gracefully slender, with huge green eyes and black hair in the cutest little pixie-cut you ever saw, and he’s glad to have gotten her to notice him for any reason.

Kari just about throws herself over the bar to shake his hand. “I knew you looked familiar! I’m Kari—great to meet you.”

“You, too,” he says. “I’m Luis.” He looks at me. “So, another drink?”

I shake my head. Judging by the way it swims when I do, that’s probably for the best. “I’m good.”

Kari isn’t done, though. “When are you gonna be on again?” she asks. “Have you been taping recently?”

Poor Luis probably thinks she’s interested in him, but I’ve known her long enough to know that he’s about to get pumped for info that she can take home and spread around to all her online soap opera pals.

I tug at her sleeve. “C’mon, let’s go congratulate Drew and get out of here.” I would rather take the lime wedge off my glass and squeeze it directly into my eyes than go over and tell Drew how absolutely thrilled I am that he found someone better than me, but I can’t just leave without talking to them. People would think I was intimidated.

Kari looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I’m not going over to make nice with those two assholes. And anyway, I’m talking to someone.”

I roll my eyes, lean in, and whisper, “He’s an extra, Kari!”

She’s quick to correct me. “He’s a day player. And everyone’s got to start somewhere.” She turns back to Luis, smiling her most predatory smile.

I leave her to it and walk away. I’m a big girl; I can do this myself. Time to face down Drew—and Gertrude—and pay my respects so I can get the hell out of here.

The bar is crowded—unpleasantly crowded, actually. Who has an engagement party in a bar? It’s ridiculous. I mean, I spend plenty of time in bars, but it’s not like I’m hosting parties.

Drew and Gertrude and their crowd of hangers-on are sitting in the six booths farthest back in the bar, and have segregated themselves by pulling two chairs around to block the aisle. I push through, excusing myself as I step on a foot or two.

“Jenna!” Drew calls out, waving amiably.

He’s casual in jeans and a black t-shirt, and his bleary smile signals that he’s on his fifth or sixth beer—at least, to anyone who knows him as well as I do. As well as I still do. It’s been just over a year since our breakup and he’s just as readable to me as he ever was. Which is irritating, now that he’s officially No Longer Available.

Irritating? There’s an understatement. Try devastating.

I stop when I reach his side, and consider what happens now. Do I shake his hand? Hug him? I settle for kissing the air beside his face. The familiar scent of Old Spice clings to his collar—always the traditionalist, that’s Drew.

I blink, pull back, and smile my brightest smile at Gertrude. She smiles back; her wattage exceeds mine. Damn it.

She reaches over and delicately but conspicuously removes a long strand of blonde hair from the front of Drew’s shirt, lets it fall to the floor beside her chair, then looks at me like I left it there on purpose. Which I didn’t, obviously. Okay, I did wear my hair down because Drew loved it that way, but I can’t shed at will. And anyway, she doesn’t exactly have to worry that the allure of my pale, stick-straight hair is going to outshine her gorgeous tangle of cascading copper. Bitch.

“It was so good of you and Kari to come, Jenna,” she says.

Her voice is smooth and cultured, the verbal equivalent of a perfect string of pearls. She looks perfect; she sounds perfect. She has the perfect clothes, the perfect boyfriend.

I know all about this kind of girl, and honestly? I’m not at all surprised that this is who Drew picked. I can tell you right now, thirty seconds after meeting her, that she grew up with money, went to the best schools, dated the captain of the football team. No holes in her shoes for this one. No butter sandwiches in her bag lunch.

“Oh,” I say, making very sure that none of my painstakingly eradicated Midwestern accent slips through, “we wouldn’t have missed it, Gertrude.”

Her smile grows strained, but only at the edges. “Please,” she says, with just a trace of grit in those pearly syllables, “call me Trudi. Everyone does.”

I nod, not making any promises. Hopefully by the next time we have occasion to speak, I can call her “Gertrude” again without seeming rude, as though her invitation to familiarity slipped my mind. We all have to take our victories, small as they are, wherever the opportunities happen to arise.

Although … while I’m hoping things, I suppose I’ll hope that I never have to see or talk to her ever again.

I turn back to Drew. “I’m sorry to cut out so early, but I’m beat. Lots of stuff going on at work.” This is a convenient truth; work is hell. We’re preparing to launch a new product, and that always means loads of extra hours.

“Where is it that you work, Jenna?” Gertrude asks.

“Home Bank,” I tell her. “I’m Director of Marketing.”

She’s already not listening; instead, she’s whispering something to Drew. He smiles at her and I feel a little sick. That smile used to be reserved for me.

“I guess I’m going to take off now,” I say, a little too loudly.

Drew nods and continues to flash his blissful drunk grin at Gertrude. “It was great to see you again,” he says, but it’s hard to take it seriously when he’s not even looking at me.

“You, too,” I say.

It’s true—I mean literally. He’s good to look at. His dark hair is cut a little longer on top than on the sides, as always; his eyes are just as blue as ever.

I shake my head. Doesn’t matter. Yeah, Drew’s handsome, and he takes care of sick animals for a living, which is pretty awesome, and he used to love me—I think—but now it’s over. Dwelling on these things doesn’t change them, and it certainly doesn’t help me feel any better about the situation.

Time to go, before I do or say something embarrassing. I swallow the lump in my throat, nod stupidly at Drew and Gertrude, and turn away, stepping on more feet as I make my escape back to the bar and Kari.

I’m so distracted that I stare at Kari’s empty stool for at least half a minute before I realize that she’s moved to the far end of the bar. She’s sitting with one leg tucked under her, perched on a stool next to the guy that Luis the bartender was talking to earlier—the one in the plaid shirt.

The shirt in question is a shade of blue that’s alarmingly close to the color of Drew’s eyes, and frankly I’m tired of thinking about Drew and his stupid eyes, and everything else about him, so I take a seat on the stool on the other side of Kari to avoid looking at it.

Kari turns to me and smiles. Her smile is entirely too wide, and I figure I’ll be helping her up to her apartment tonight. She doesn’t look like she’s reached the point where I’ll be patting her back while she pukes, but if the night doesn’t end soon, I won’t be able to rule it out entirely.

“How’d it go?” she asks.

“Just great,” I say. “How’d it go over here?”

“It is going awesome.” She smiles, leans back, and tilts her head at the guy Luis has been talking to all night, the one in the flannel shirt, who’s staring down into his pint of beer and doesn’t notice us gawking at him. I get my first good look at him, and fail to be impressed. Cowboy boots, of all things. And worn jeans—not artfully worn, but worn out. His hair is long, but not in any committed way; it’s more like he can’t be bothered. It’s impressively thick and a wonderful chestnut color, but if he doesn’t care, why should I? His jaw is strong, nicely square—very nice, actually—but he hasn’t gotten around to shaving for some indeterminate but excessive length of time.

I suppose some women would find him attractive, but I’m not one of them.

“He’s no more your type than he is mine,” I tell her.

“And that right there is the difference between us, mon amie.” Her French accent is appalling. “I don’t have a ‘type’—and honestly? Neither do you. You’ve still got a crush on Cary Elwes, for crying out loud, and he’s getting downright saggy. Give me a break.”

“He was Westley,” I say, mortally offended.

“I know.” She dismisses me with a wave and hops off her stool, patting her new pal’s arm as she does. “Hey, I wanted to introduce you to my friend.”

He swings around on his stool and looks at me with eyes the exact color of coffee with double cream—which, as it happens, is how I like it best. Yummy.

“Jenna, this is Mitchell Cole. This is Jenna.”

I nod and smile. I figure I’ll make nice for a minute, then take off. I kind of need a pair of sweatpants and a chick-flick right now.

Then Mitchell Cole speaks, and time stops.