Before the catfight became fully blown, I quickly shifted the focus back to my dilemma. “Guys! Guys! Yoo, hoo! Engagement party? Three weeks? Remember?!”

“Montana, you’re right. And I apologize. Gail, apologize.”

“For what?”

“For being mannish!”

“You apologize.”

“I just did!”

“Guys, guys!”

“I’m sorry, Montana. Gail, I call a truce. Montana needs us right now.”

“Truce accepted,” Gail replied.

“Montana, if you just have to have a man to show up to your sister’s engagement party, then that’s simple. I’m sure any man would love to be your escort,” Sam said.

“Yeah, especially if you promise to give him some later that night,” Gail offered.

“Wrong answer!!!” Sam exclaimed with an irritating high-pitched shrill. “Unlike you, Heidi Fleiss, Montana is no longer prostituting herself for love. Wait, I have an idea. Montana, get your phone book.”

“Why?”

“Girl, just do it.” Not knowing his plan but trusting his motives, I reached in my purse and pulled it out, only to have it instantly snatched from my hands. “We’ll flip through the book and narrow your choices down to one.”

“One?!” Gail shouted. “She can’t pick just one. She’ll need at least ten. A woman’s always got to have backup.”

“Ten isn’t backup, ten is a posse. All right, so we’ll pick two, then.”

“No, we’ll pick eight.”

“No, we’ll pick four.”

“Six!”

“We’ll pick five!” I said, figuring it was the happy and most reasonable compromise. Five single, eligible, and available men that are willing to become engaged in three weeks. We started with A.

“Aaron. What about Aaron?” Sam asked.

“Aaron…Aaron is incredible. Well spoken, smart, handsome, but…married with five kids.”

“Married?” Gail replied, “Well, why is he still in your phone book? That’s a waste of space. He’s got a wife and an NBA team.” Quickly ripping him out, balling him up, and throwing the page in the trash, we moved on.

“Allan! What’s the deal on him?” Sam asked.

“He’s very considerate. Always very well put-together. Sends a card on my birthday every year since we met…But, he’s gay.”

“Oooh, girl,” Gail said, ripping out the page. “He gets slam-dunked in the garbage can.”

“Give me that page, Gail. Just because he’s gay does not mean he’s garbage, you Raggedy Ann–headed goat. Allan has potential,” Sam added, snatching the page from Gail and smoothing out its wrinkled creases.

“Not for Montana,” Gail shot back.

“I know, heifer. For me!” Sam responded, stuffing the number in his pocket.