“Are you crazy?” I glare at her. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“You think I’m stupid?” Julia screams, and reaches for the mashed potatoes again.

“Don’t you dare,” I threaten.

She ignores me and—squish!—I’m hit near the collarbone.

After that, it’s mayhem. I grab the first thing within my reach on the table—cranberry sauce—and throw it at her. She retaliates with a greenish vegan slop, and we keep going until we’re both panting hard and drenched head to toe in goo.

“Can you tell me why you’re so mad at me, really?” I ask.

“Maybe because I find it strange that a boyfriend no one had ever heard about suddenly appeared the day after I told you I was engaged,” Julia yells, still panting. “And it’s even stranger that he just so happens to look and act exactly like the fantasy man I told you about when I came up to your office!”

“You said you wanted someone dark and mysterious, someone dangerous. I don’t see Diego that way.”

“I also said he would have to be tall, with smoldering green eyes, and full lips… Ring a bell? I said I wanted him to speak Italian, and to ride a bike. That he would have to be some kind of struggling artist, someone who lives paycheck to paycheck. And who buys cheap rings. That’s basically Diego’s identikit. You really failed to notice?”

“So what if I did? You’re just jealous I stole the attention for five minutes, preventing everybody in the family from drooling over your one-carat ring the entire time.”

“Oh, so now I’m the jealous one?” Julia brushes a slab of muck that’s dripping down her forehead away from her eye. “That’s rich, coming from you!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That at least now you can stop being jealous of me dating Paul.”

The accusation hurts like a slap. “Why would I be jealous of you dating Paul?”

“Oh, please. I’ve always known you had a thing for him.”

I freeze at that. My first instinct is to deny it, but an irrational rage takes over and, calm as a snake before it attacks, I hiss, “So why did you go out with him if you knew?”

Julia lowers her eyes, looking momentarily guilty, before her usual flippancy is back. She shrugs, and says, “I liked him.”

That could be it: she saw something she liked and took it, no matter whose feelings she had to trample in the process. But that fraction-of-a-second guilty stare gave her away.

I narrow my eyes at her. “Did you go out with Paul specifically to piss me off?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She waves dismissively, but I see how she flares her nostrils, like she does whenever she’s lying.

“You’re lying.” The realization hits me in the gut like a sucker punch. “You knew I liked him, and that’s the only reason you went out with him.” My voice goes up a notch. “You’re such a bitch!”

Blind fury takes over again, and I make a grab for the first offending substance I can find—chocolate pudding—and throw a handful at her, aiming for her face. I miss and hit her below the shoulder.