Being maid of honor comes with a schedule of events and a list of duties, some already crossed out, like “Research old restaurant that Oprah loves,” “Book the water spa,” and some duties yet to be crossed out: “Buy compostable dick-themed flatware,” “Confirm tarot reading, 7 p.m.,” and “Confirm Sex Woman, 5 p.m.”

“Confirm Sex Woman?” Phoebe asks.

“What’s a Sex Woman?” Juice asks.

“Nobody knows, sweetheart,” Marla says.

“I’m not supposed to know,” Lila says, closing the binder. “Today is supposed to be a surprise.”

“I bet she’s one of those women who show up with toys and things, and, like, teaches us how to have sex,” Suz says.

“Do you not know how to have sex, bro?” Juice asks Lila.

“Mel, please don’t call me bro,” Lila says.

“Bro, please don’t call me Mel.”

“But Mel is a beautiful name,” Lila says. “And Juice is actually the nickname of a professional football player who was famously tried for murder.”

Marla looks at Lila accusingly, and Juice asks, “Wait, what?”

“It’s true,” Marla says, with an apologetic look. “O. J. Simpson.”

“Then why did my mom call me that?” Juice asks.

“I honestly can’t remember,” Marla confesses.

Juice is not pleased. She looks at Lila like it’s her fault that her nickname is forever ruined now. She sits back and crosses her arms in defeat.

“So what’s good here?” Phoebe asks, closing the binder.

“I highly suggest the squash toast,” Lila says.

“What happened to avocado toast?” Phoebe asks.

“That’s over now,” Lila says.

“So soon? I just started understanding the appeal.”

“Too late. Squash toast is like, the next generation,” Lila says.

“Avocado toast was a total scam,” Marla says. “And squash toast is even more of a scam.”

“How can it be a scam?” Lila asks. “The menu says how much it costs.”

“Yeah, twenty-two dollars! It’s somehow even more expensive than avocado toast, despite the fact that gourds are historically the cheapest vegetable known to mankind.”

“What are gourds?” Juice asks.

“Squash,” Phoebe says.

“Why don’t people just say ‘squash’ then?” Juice asks.

The Drink Concierge returns.

“I’ll have the gourd toast,” Juice says, but the Drink Concierge doesn’t break character.

“Anyone else?” he asks.

“Same,” Phoebe says.

Phoebe doesn’t give a shit how much it costs. Phoebe is hungry. Phoebe is still buzzing from the walk. Phoebe wants to feed her body.

“Cheers,” she says when she finally takes a bite.

But Phoebe knows that if she were really at this wedding the way Marla is really at this wedding, if she were the Phoebe of ten years ago, she would be making a mental bill in her head, too, tallying up everything, trying to create some big argument about how wasteful it all is.

But now she is counting other things.

“In just this room alone, there are ten doors,” Phoebe says, and she loves this about historic houses, though nobody else looks astonished.

“Is this supposed to be the start of a game or something?” Suz asks.

Juice rips a sugar pack in half over her coffee.

“Juice!” Marla says, when half of it gets on the table. “You just got sugar everywhere.”

“It’s fine,” Juice says. “I’ll lick it up like I’m a priest.”

“I’m sorry,” Phoebe says. “You’re going to have to explain that one.”

“Grandma said that when the priest spills the wine, he has to lick it off the floor,” Juice says. “Because it’s literally Jesus. And if you don’t, then Jesus will just sit there on the linoleum for the rest of time.”

“Wait, seriously?” Nat asks, and Juice nods, then licks the sugar off the table.

Lila turns her gaze to Phoebe.

“You know what open-toed shoes are?” Lila asks.

“Is this a maid of honor test?” Phoebe asks.

“I certainly hope not. You know, right?”

“I refuse to dignify that with a response.”

“See?” Lila says to Juice, who is still licking up the sugar. “That’s what I told Mel. I mean, Juice. Everybody knows what open-toed shoes are.”

Juice pulls away from the table with sudden coolness. “Well, sorry, I don’t.”