“That does not say Jarrow Robertson. I don’t even know a Jarrow Robertson. You’ve met literally every single person in my extremely limited social circle. Who the hell would Jarrow Robertson be?”

Oliver gave me an infuriatingly cool shrug. “A friend of your mother’s?”

“As you’re very well aware, my mother has one friend.”

Calmly, Oliver directed my attention to the Peloton card. “So who is this meant to be?”

“Bridge. And Tom.”

“That’s definitely a P,” insisted Oliver, squinting at something that was definitely a B. A slightly top-heavy B, I will admit. A B that could in a certain light be misconstrued by an uncharitable person as having P-like qualities.

“Fine, give me a pink one. I’ll redo it.”

“Pink is for immediate family.”

I buried my head in my hands. “What if immediate family need two seats?”

“They’ll all need two seats, so it doesn’t have to be specified.”

“What about Mum?”

“I assumed she’d want to sit with Judy,” explained Oliver. “And it seemed allonormative to insist that a person’s plus-one had to be a romantic partner. Besides, I’m not sure we want Judy roaming the wedding breakfast unaccompanied.”

He was right on both counts. My dad would have gone stag, but I’d bitten the bullet and not invited the fucker. Which meant immediate family was just Christopher and Mia, Mum and Judy, and… “Are we”—this was messy and there was no tactful way to say it—“are we assuming that David and Miriam are still coming?”

There was a slightly too long silence.

“I am operating on the assumption,” said Oliver finally, “that they will. Because they are my parents and, despite our recent disagreements, I choose to believe that they do, on some level, want to be part of my life.”

That seemed quite an assumption, given that they hadn’t spoken in two months. “You could try reaching out?” I suggested without much enthusiasm. Standing up to them had been such a big step forward for Oliver that it seemed counterproductive for me to be encouraging him to back down.

Oliver was putting all the yellow index cards in a separate pile. “I don’t think I will. I have spent my entire life trying to live up to their expectations. It’s time for them to try to live up to mine.”

“And what if they…don’t?”

“Then”—his mouth tightened—“I suppose I shall have to deal with it.”

I wanted to say something reassuring, but it was hard to know how. In my experience, hoping someone who’d been letting you down for years would suddenly stop letting you down was a recipe for really bad feels. And the best thing you could do was not invite them to your wedding and not a give a fuck.

Or maybe I was projecting.

Besides, Oliver was a congenital fuck giver.