I’m not much of a drinker but decide I need something strong. I get to my feet, walk the few steps over to my kitchen, and survey my paltry selection of liquor. I opt for Tito’s, pouring it into a juice glass, skipping ice and mixers. Vodka neat and room temperature. Is that a thing? It is now. I take a large swallow, then quickly drain the rest and head down the hall to my bedroom. I take off my shoes and pants, then crawl under the covers, curling into a tight ball.

Just as the vodka starts to kick in, my phone rings. It’s my mother. I want to answer it. I want to pour my heart out to her and have her tell me that everything is going to be okay. But after thirty-two years, I know better than to answer. I know that she is incapable of making me feel better after a stumble or fall, especially one this serious. She just can’t do it. She’ll find a way to make me feel worse. She had worked so hard to infiltrate Grady’s mother’s Bible study group, then the inner sanctum of her tennis team, to arrange that first date, years ago. And now all her effort was for nothing. I know that will be her take, and I can’t bear the thought of disappointing her. I can’t bear the thought of anything.

I tell myself to pull it together. My fiancé cheated on me, but it’s not the first time in human history that such a thing has happened. There are many people in the world struggling to survive—and in any event, suffering far more than I am right now.

But perspective is a hard thing to come by when your heart is broken, and I feel myself completely unraveling, believing this is proof that I’m destined to be alone, maybe even unworthy of having a happy family. Suddenly, all I want to do is call Summer. Hear her voice. Cry into the phone. She would know what to say. She would know how to ease my pain, if only a little.

And that’s when I realize what I need to do. It’s not a solution, but it is a path forward. A baby step. A promise kept.

Chapter 2

Lainey

I am sitting in Delta’s Sky Club lounge at LaGuardia, nursing a vodka martini as I wait to board a flight to L.A. I have an audition tomorrow, so I really should be hydrating, but it’s only one drink. My cellphone rings. I expect it to be my agent, Casey, whom I just hung up with. But it’s my best friend, Hannah—which probably means she’s sitting in Atlanta traffic. I honestly don’t know how she stands all that time in her car. I’d go crazy.

I answer with my usual “hey,” waiting for a mundane wedding update. Ever since Hannah got engaged last fall, our conversations have become a bit one-dimensional. As her maid of honor, I understand that comes with the territory—and it really is an honor. I also recognize that over the years, my drama has dominated the airwaves. But I can’t lie; I’ll be happy when the whole thing is over and we can get back to our regularly scheduled programming.

“Hi. Did I catch you at a bad time?” she asks, her typical starter. Her voice is faint, like she just woke up from a nap.

“No. I’m at the airport. Waiting for my flight to L.A.,” I say.

“Oh, right. Your audition.”

“Yeah. What’s up?”

There is silence on the end of the line, and I wonder if we’ve lost our connection.

“Han? You there?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“I can barely hear you,” I say, pressing my phone against my ear. “Where are you?”

“I’m home.”

“Are you okay?”

“Not really, actually,” she says, her voice shaking.

“Oh, crap. Your mother again?”

Hannah’s narcissistic mother has been dormant for a couple of weeks—which means she’s overdue for one of her manipulative stunts. You’d think Mrs. Davis was the one getting married. She definitely thinks it’s her day.

“No,” Hannah says. “Unfortunately, it’s a bit worse than my mother.”

My stomach drops, remembering the voicemail she left me ten years ago, after Summer committed suicide. And then my mother’s call to tell me about the “tiny tumor” her doctor had found. Six months later, she was gone, too.

“Tell me what’s going on,” I say, bracing myself.

“Grady cheated on me,” she says through sobs.

My jaw drops. It’s the last thing I expected to hear. “When? Are you sure?”

“Today. And yes, I’m sure.”

“Shit, Hannah. With who?” I ask, praying that it’s not one of her “friends,” though I wouldn’t put it past a couple of them.

“Berlin Beverly,” she tells me.

The name sounds familiar—one of the cast of characters Hannah sometimes mentions—but I can’t place her.

“Should I know who that is?”

“She’s an influencer. Here in Atlanta. I’ve sent you some stuff from her ‘Like to Know It’ page.”

“Oh, shit. The blonde in the goofy Little House on the Prairie dresses?” I ask, as I pull her up on Instagram and confirm that I have the right suspect.

“Yeah. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Yuck. No,” I say, scanning her feed with disgust. “She’s fake as fuck. A plastic Barbie doll…although that’s an insult to Barbie.”

“She’s twenty-four,” Hannah says.

“And? So? Who the fuck cares how old she is?” I ask. “She’s a dumb whore.”

It’s not the way I usually talk. I never slut-shame anyone, and not only because of my own lifestyle choices.

“Do you think he’s in love with her?” Hannah asks.

“Oh, please, Hannah. He’s not in love with her.”

“What if he is?”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“It matters to me,” she says.

I cast about for the right words, wishing Summer were still with us. She would know what to say. She always knew what to say.

“Are you sure about this? Maybe it’s just a rumor—”

“It’s not a rumor, Lainey. I saw them.”

“Okay. But what did you see, exactly?” I say, imagining a lingering hug in a parking lot. Something shady but explainable.

“I saw them in bed. Having sex,” she says, then starts to cry again.

My jaw drops for the second time. “Oh my God, Hannah! You should have started with that! What happened? You busted them? How did they react?”