Hey, Flip, I deeply regret saying that your marriage will fail harder than Bear Stearns and Lehman Brothers. And also for saying that grown men don’t call themselves “Flip.”

My analogy game was on point last night, scotch be damned. But my behavior wasn’t.

Which means I’ll inevitably turn to Asher, the groom’s best bud, the guy who was twenty-seven minutes late the first time I met him. He’d delayed the start of game night six months ago—the one my sister had arranged so we could all meet, back when she and Flip had just become an item.

Then Asher had sauntered in. Yes, he saunters, with his too-toned-to-be-real frame, and too-floppy-to-be-anything-but-a-shampoo-model hair, with his so sorry I was late, but I found a puppy shivering outside the building so I had to take him to the local rescue apology.

Of fucking course.

He couldn’t be that good-looking and just be late. He had to be late with style and substance.

The second time our paths crossed, they literally crossed. He lifted his glass of champagne right when I entered the dining room for my sister’s dinner party, and my chest ran into his arm, dousing me in bubbly.

With a lopsided grin, and the kind of cocky confidence that only a former pro athlete can pull off, he proceeded to unbutton his shirt, take it off, and offer it to me in front of everyone.

I declined, while trying not to stare at his eight-pack. Obviously, I wore my champagne-soaked button-down all through dinner.

I’m not taking another man’s shirt.

And, so, Asher, I didn’t mean it when I called you Flip’s superhot wingman, or referred to your body as annoyingly perfect.

His abs are truly perfect. Nothing annoying whatsoever about that washboard.

But still, as I reach the door of the restaurant, I remind myself to apologize thoroughly and sincerely. To proceed like I didn’t mean all the things the liquor unleashed from my thumbs last night.

Like I’m not completely panicking over my little sister’s sudden engagement. And her just-announced pregnancy to the guy she started dating in December.

Like I’m not at all terrified her shotgun marriage will go belly up, beached-whale style, just like mine did.

And like I'm not attracted to the wingman who irritates the hell out of me, the guy I also maybe, kinda, sorta would like to see naked.

Nope.

That shit will stay locked up tight. Where it belongs.

I straighten up, open the door, and walk inside.

“May I help you?” the hostess asks with a gracious smile.

It’s tempting to ask her to put me out of my misery. But I give Flip’s name instead. Well, his real name.

“I’m here for the Phillipe Dubois party,” I say.

“Fantastic. They just arrived,” she says. “You’re all so punctual.”

Great. I’m always on the dot, and this time they beat me to it by showing up earlier. Could this night suck more?

I follow her to the back of the restaurant where the superhot wingman is hosting a small but chic engagement dinner. He’ll have invited all their old prep school friends, with their boat shoes and suntans, and names like Carlisle Bancroft.