Meg frowns at me, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “First of all, weddings are the devil. Planning one is enough to drive the happiest couple bananas. Tommy and I barely made it down the aisle after a feud over our table runners.”

“The fuck is a table runner?” Rufus says.

“Don’t ask,” Meg replies. “I’m still mad we went with maroon. The point is, it’s a lot.”

“I guess,” I say, “but our disconnect was less about the wedding, and more about the marriage. We didn’t want the same life. We tried to ignore that for a long time. Stupidly long. Because . . . because . . .”

“Because he was Ninety-Nine Things?” Meg offers.

I drop my head on the table. Over the years, my friends have ribbed me about my list. But lovingly, acceptingly. If Meg and Rufus had any idea what an imposter Noa Callaway is, they’d pity me for real.

“I’m such a fool,” I moan.

“Lanie,” Rufus says, “plenty of people stay in worse relationships for way more pathetic reasons.”

“True,” Meg says. “Do you remember Mary, my assistant two assistants ago? And those really long lunch breaks she used to take?”

“She was always very sweaty in the afternoons,” Rufus says.

“Well, I found out it was because her boyfriend refused to let her dog out, so she had to run home to Tribeca. Every. Single. Day. He worked from home! But she didn’t want to leave him because his apartment was rent-controlled.”

“Well, my cousin,” Rufus says, leaning in and lowering his voice like he always does when he talks about his family, even though they all live on the West Coast, “is dating this dude who makes her call him ‘the Terminator’ during sex. And she stays because he put her on his gym membership!”

“That’s kind of hot?” Meg says, as if trying to imagine it.

“You have a problem,” Rufus says to her.

“It has a name,” Meg says, closing her eyes. “Dry Spell.”

“Meg, you and Tommy are allowed to have sex,” I say. “Even though you’re married.”

She groans and leans back in her chair. “Married sex requires so much imagination, it’s exhausting.”

“Like . . . you start doing it in imaginative places?” I ask. “Fire escape, that kind of thing?”

“No, like I imagine Tommy is my friend’s ex-fiancé, and he’s calling me the Terminator.”

Despite myself, I laugh, and Meg and Rufus cheer at the sound of it.

“Our point is,” Rufus says, “you and Ryan are both boneable, successful, decent people. Stone-cold catches. It makes sense that you tried to make it work.”