As soon as the server walks away, I stare down both my friends. “Start talking. And not about pickles. You hated Ryan? All this time?”

“No, no, we liked him,” Rufus says, his tone tactful. “He was a fabulous boyfriend. Capital F, capital B. Meg and I both appreciated the eye candy, especially that weekend at the Jersey Shore.”

“Remember his red bathing suit?” Meg makes a sizzling sound. She’s already flushed from the tequila.

“But,” Rufus says, “we’re . . . glad you’re not going to marry him.”

“Was it just me,” Meg says, “or was he always looking for reasons you should quit your job?”

I nod. I sigh. “He started working that angle on our second date.”

“And the religion thing?” Rufus says, untwining the wire around the prosecco cork. “You would really have deprived us of your legendary Passover seders?”

“You just like to make fun of my gefilte fish,” I say.

“That is not fish. It’s just not. Also? Ryan called me Randall every time I saw him,” Rufus says. “For three years.”

“He did not!” I gasp. “That is deeply un-presidential.”

“Yeah, I’m not voting for him,” Rufus says, and pops the cork on the bottle. “Opa!”

“So, what are we drinking to?” I ask as he fills my flute.

“To you not moving to D.C.,” Rufus says.

“To you never being fucking FLOTUS!” Meg says.

“I will drink to that,” I say and raise my glass. “No offense, Michelle.”

“No offense, Michelle,” they echo and drink, too.

We sip our Kate Mosses and watch the city waking up around us, the hot dog vendor setting up on the street corner, the stroller parades of the Upper West Side, the bike messengers banging on windows of careless Uber drivers. We’re quiet for a while, and it’s nice. I feel scaffolded by my friends.

Then the sun peeks out from behind a cloud, making the 1.5-carat diamond glint.

“What am I going to do about this ring?” I say, wanting to cry again.

“Does he want it back?” Rufus asks.

“Beats me, he won’t answer my calls or texts.”

“Ryan is so the kind of guy who will not take back the ring,” Meg says. “He’ll see it as some magnanimous gesture. Very gauche for a politician to take back a ring.”

I nod. “You’re right. It’s annoying.”

“Pawn it?” Rufus says. “Like, classy-pawn. I know a guy.”

“Of course you do,” Meg says.

I shake my head. “That feels wrong. But so does letting it fester in my jewelry box at home.”

“I hate to see platinum fester,” Meg says.

“You know what I mean. It feels like this . . . sparkling emblem of my three-year-long self-delusion, of my embarrassing inability to navigate the best course for my life.”

Rufus giggles. “You get so verbose when you are tipsy.” He tops off my prosecco glass. “Quick, what’s a four-syllable word for horny?”