“I’m Phoebe,” she says. “The maid of honor.”

Lila’s grandmother accepts this. Funny how people just believe you are who you say you are, Phoebe thinks. She’s not sure why she never realized this power that she had before. But it’s true. She is the maid of honor. She puts her hand on Gary’s shoulder and says, “I’ll handle it,” and Gary mouths, Thank you.

“Excuse me,” Phoebe says to Pauline at the front desk. “It seems that the bride will need a new car.”

“Is there something wrong with it?” Pauline asks.

She can see Jim’s problem: “Made love” is too weird. “Had sex with” doesn’t capture the spirit of the crime.

“Someone fucked it,” Phoebe says.

Pauline does not even blink, not even when one of her fake eyelashes falls off. She just continues to stand there, as if she is in the middle of training herself never to have another reaction again.

“That’s … highly unusual. We are very sorry for that. We will … make a note of it. None of our cars have ever … We’ll arrange for a new one right away. Oh, and please tell the bride that the Commodore’s Punch Bowl tonight is on me.”

Phoebe leaves and wonders how long Pauline will wait before she reaches out to pick up her eyelashes.

UPSTAIRS, PHOEBE TAKES a long shower to wash off the oils from the spa. Water—she can’t get enough of it this week. She is sure that she could live forever if she could always be in this shower. She turns off all the lights and scrubs herself with something called Oat Milk Soap for Human Beings. It works. She sits on the watery floor and feels more like a human being than she has in years.

She puts on her dress and then applies the makeup she bought earlier. She used to feel some kind of professorial obligation to despise the stuff, but if she is being honest with herself, she likes putting on makeup. She missed it during the pandemic. It’s a nice ritual, and if you do anything enough, that’s what it becomes. A ritual that has the power to make you feel something. She spreads the bold red stick across her lips, and she feels suddenly awake, ready for the evening.

DOWNSTAIRS AT THE bar, the women are clumped around Lila. They look bright against the dark-blue drapes, their cocktail dresses like different lollipops. But when Phoebe joins them, the mood is heavy.

“Do you think it had something to do with how beautiful the car was?” Suz asks.

“Like that’s why a person chooses to fuck some cars over others?” Nat wonders.

The women don’t know. None of them can begin to understand the psychology of car-fucking, except for Marla.

“That’s not how it works,” Marla says. “It has nothing to do with how hot the car is.”

“Can we not talk about the car?” Lila asks, with a new edge to her voice. She sounds like the Lila that Phoebe first met in the elevator.

“Let’s get some cocktails and bring them upstairs for the Sex Woman,” Phoebe says.

“Where’s the Drink Concierge?” Lila asks.

Suz gets a text, which is a public event for all of them, because she insists on keeping the phone face up on the table at all times.

“Ugh. I don’t know why my husband keeps texting me every little detail about the Little Worm’s shit,” Suz says. “Like he thinks I must know, right now, about what color it is. I’m at a bachelorette party!”

But it doesn’t feel like one until Ryun arrives with five glasses of the Commodore’s Punch. Lila looks relieved. She sips her cocktail, while Marla asks Ryun, “What’s the difference between a Drink Concierge and a bartender?” and “Why the u?”

“Guess my parents thought it’d be more original,” Ryun says.

“Ugh. Why does everybody need to be so original these days?” Lila asks.

“Just wanted me to be special, I suppose.”

“But that’s the worst part!” Lila says. “Why were they so afraid that you wouldn’t be special? Why couldn’t you just be an ordinary baby?”

Ryun shrugs. He doesn’t know. “Turns out the joke’s on them because I’m not very special.”

Ryun is a surfer. Works here to support his lifestyle.

“I have literally no other ambition than that,” he says. He doesn’t even want to be a professional surfer. He is realistic. He knows that’s no life. He just wants to … do it.

“Well, good for you,” Lila says. “Don’t make anything of yourself. My mother wanted me to be special, too. She expects me to be her grand masterpiece. And she’s not even a painter!”

Ryun laughs, looks at her in her big fake veil and glittering sash. “You seem pretty special.”

Lila’s cheeks flush like she is already drunk, and maybe she is. “Thanks.”

Marla gives Ryun a death stare for flirting with the bride. Phoebe holds up her glass.

“A toast to the bride,” Phoebe says, and Lila smiles. “Now let’s go see the Sex Woman.”

THE SEX WOMAN is already in the billiards room when they arrive.

“You’re late,” she says.

She stands behind a giant projector in a taupe suit and a low ponytail. She reminds Phoebe of her old self in the classroom, secretly angry at all the late students but trying desperately not to seem so. Maybe this is why Phoebe apologizes.

“Very, very sorry,” Phoebe says.

They sit down on the teal couch with their drinks. Lila gives them all a big smile, like she is better now. Ready to have some fun.

“Good evening, ladies,” the Sex Woman says. “And who is the special bride tonight?”

Lila raises her hand and the women cheer.

“Well, congratulations,” the Sex Woman says. “As you likely know, I’m a former colleague of Viv’s. We worked together not long ago while I was at the Atlanta Zoo.”

They all nod like they knew this.

“But ever since the pandemic, I’ve obviously made a bit of a career shift. Turns out there’s more money in bachelorette parties than the nonprofit sector,” she jokes, and everyone laughs. “But more seriously, in case Viv didn’t tell you, let me introduce myself. I am the world’s foremost international mating expert for the Ailuropoda melanoleuca, otherwise known as the giant panda. I have been the chief consultant to three national zoos. I have appeared on two different PBS conservation specials and have personally participated in the sexual intercourse of at least four pandas across the world.”

Nat and Suz laugh. Marla looks at Phoebe and nods her head, as if she’s genuinely impressed by the Sex Woman’s credentials. But Lila looks confused, whispers, “Is this Viv’s idea of a joke?” and they shrug. Phoebe suspects that if they were in grade school, this is when they would break into uncontrollable laughter. But they don’t. They are adult women. It does not feel right to make fun of any woman standing before them, not to mention pandas. It feels more like she’s at an academic conference and should raise her hand, inquire about the pandas. But it’s Marla who does it.

“You participated in panda sex?” Marla asks. “What does that mean?”

“Good question,” the Sex Woman says. She pulls up the first slide. “This is Mei Mei.”

She points to a sad photograph of a panda holding a single stalk of bamboo.

“I helped Mei Mei make love for the first time, probably one of the biggest achievements on my CV to date. For seven years, Mei Mei showed no interest in mating with the other pandas at the Atlanta Zoo. Our research suggests this is largely due to being in a state of captivity. In captivity, the giant panda has forgotten how to have sex. By trying to protect the pandas, we have nearly killed them.”

More photos of pandas in separate rooms. Pandas looking forlorn.