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there.”
    “Yeah but I didn’t actually believe you. I mean, are you like a spy or something?”
    I laugh. “I teach English to middle school kids.”
    She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. A patronizing noise. An “aw” with a bite. “That’s so cute.”
    I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What do you do?”
    “Oh you know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that.” The mantra of a bored little rich girl. “But mostly blogging now that I’m married.” She spreads and wiggles her five fingers, flashing the diamond ring that weighs heavy on her hand. It doesn’t surprise me. Suzanne’s had her wedding planned since she was nine, making construction paper cut outs of her handsome groom with sticks for legs and arms.
    I go through the motions, the wide mouth gasp, the eager grabbing of her hand. “Congratulations,” I almost squeal, drawing the attention of the crowd around us. There’s something morbid about staring into a glittering ring, Suzanne blushing and grinning as I pull away, while the two of us stand in the middle of my father’s repass.
    “Thank you,” she says, staring dreamily at her hand. “It’s the one thing I have over Natalie.” Her older, arguably prettier sister. “She’s still struggling to make it in New York, living in a shitty apartment with five roommates and not one boyfriend.” Suzanne cackles evilly before she swallows a gulp of champagne. “I mean, you do have a boyfriend, don’t you?” I don’t feel the need to lie until: “Justin! Justin, honey, get over here and look who I found.”
    Remember those over-dramatic moments in comedies? Where a hilarious twist of events are sprung on the protagonist, and for a moment, they’re stricken dead-eyed and immobile? The audience laughs – the applause sign flickering on and off – but the protagonist is always seconds away from passing out. I imagine this moment to be a lot like that. Me, unaware, that there’s a studio audience full of people, lapping up the sight of Justin, scurrying over to Suzanne, one arm thrown around her waist, the other reaching for her champagne glass. She pulls it out of his reach and he smiles before he drops a kiss to her lips.
    I’m going to be sick.
    Justin was never handsome but his boyish looks remain, blond hair sweeping across his forehead, not a speck of facial hair to be found. Next to Suzanne he looks like her brother, the two of them sporting the same shade of blue eyes, round faces and a similar shade of hair. Two exuberant siblings dressed in designer clothing and way too close.
    “Caitlin.” He holds out his hand. “It’s been way too long.”
    In an instant my romantic image of Justin is shattered and replaced with a boiling pit of anger that brews in my stomach. You asshole. You utter, insufferable asshole . Grinning as if the last time we saw each other didn’t end in me rushing out of his house in tears.
    I nod and smile tightly, limply shaking his hand, my skin crawling at his touch. “It has. I didn’t even know you and Suzanne were dating, nevertheless married.”
    “It just sort of happened,” Suzanne interjects. “You know how it is. We were home for the summer after our first year of college, feeling cooped up and antsy and,” she laughs, “one thing led to another and soon we were in love.”
    I hate that I know that feeling. I hate that Suzanne and I share it with Justin.
    “It’s a little more complicated than that,” he says, trying to save face. “But yeah, she’s mine and I’m hers --”
    “Forever and ever amen,” says Suzanne.
    She’s elated. Over the moon. Drunk with love and rubbing it in my face.
    During the course of our friendship I had nothing she could resent me for. Her relationship with her father was better, she was ignorant to my relationship with my mom, and she had siblings – Wonderful! Equally ruthless siblings! – where I was an only child. It was Justin who drew the wedge between us. My wonderful,