I shake my head. I’m not much of a coffee drinker. I’ll just sip enough to take the edge off of this hangover.
Miles opens the jar and spoons a little probably-maple-syrup into his coffee. “Is that good?” I ask, leaning forward to watch.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Seems like it would be, though. Did you drunk-dial?”
“What?” I say.
“Did you call Peter drunk?” he says, unwrapping his sandwich, flipping it open, and absolutely slathering the egg and avocado inside with sriracha.
“No, he called me.”
He pauses with the sandwich halfway to his mouth. He lets out another laugh and lowers the sandwich. “Wait. Did we RSVP to their wedding last night?”
Hearing it said aloud, again, sends a full-body shudder through me. Groaning, I drop my face against my forearms on the counter.
“Wait, wait.” Miles presses his palm into my forehead and tips my face up so he can meet my eyes. “That’s why he called? Because he got the RSVP?”
I nod. “He called to tell me I don’t have to come. That he knows how hard it will be for me to be there, all by my lonesome, so utterly shattered and alone and lonely and unloved.”
Miles snorts. “Smug little prick.”
“He’s six four,” I say.
“Smug giant douche,” he amends. Then, after a minute, “Or, I don’t know, maybe he genuinely thought he was being nice?”
“No, you were right the first time.”
Miles unwraps my breakfast sandwich partway and shoves it toward my face. I take a bite, and then he sets it down in front of my chin.
“Wait!” He braces his hands against the counter, face brightening. “So he called to try to make you feel so pathetic you wouldn’t come ruin his special day, and you told him we were dating?”
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“That fucking rules,” he says. “How’d he take it?”
“Some silence, some scoffs of disbelief,” I say. “A gentle reminder that the wedding’s not for three months, and there’s no way you and I will still be dating by then. Pretty perceptive of him, given that we’re not dating now.” I drop my face, groaning anew at the fresh round of hammering inside my brain.
“Eat something,” Miles says. “It will help.”
I pitch myself onto one of the mismatched wooden stools at the counter and slide the sandwich toward me, taking a forceful bite.
“Maybe we should date,” Miles says.
I choke. He watches me coughing, an impish grin forming on his impish mouth. “Yes,” I finally manage. “A shared cuckolding is the most fertile ground from which love could ever spring.”
“Yeah, that,” he says, “and it would piss them off.”
“As you pointed out,” I say. “They don’t care. They’re getting married, Miles.”
“And six weeks ago, you were getting married,” he says.
“Hey, if you’re willing to keep reminding me of that daily, I can go ahead and rename my morning alarm something other than WAKE UP, YOU’VE BEEN JILTED, BITCH.”
“No, I mean, a few weeks ago, you and Peter were engaged. And yet, he was jealous of me, and you were jealous of Petra.”
“Excuse you,” I say.
“I’m quoting you,” he says.
“From when?” I say.
“Halfway through the third time you put on ‘Witchy Woman’ last night.”
I narrow my gaze.
“You don’t remember anything that happened, do you?” He seems tickled at the thought.
“I remember Glenn,” I say.
“Gill,” he says.
“Right.”
“My point is, just because they’re engaged, it doesn’t mean they’re above jealousy.” He takes another sip of coffee. I reach feebly toward the maple syrup jar, and he nudges it closer to me.
I spoon some into my mug and take a sip.
“What do you think?” he asks, leaning forward.
