“But you’re not meant to support him,” Bridge insisted. “Not if he wants to call the wedding off. Then you’re supposed to fight for him. You’re meant to say, No, I love you more than anything in the universe, and we’re meant to be together forever. And then he says, You’re right. I’ve been a fool, a mad, impetuous fool.”

I divided my attention between a lolly in one hand and a beer in the other. And that was some duality-of-man shit right there. “Firstly, if there’s one thing Oliver isn’t, it’s a mad, impetuous fool. Secondly, he’d never say ‘mad, impetuous fool’ because he’d be concerned it could be considered ableist. Thirdly, demanding Oliver put marrying me above dealing with his father’s death is a total dick move.”

“Not if you really are meant to be together forever.”

Priya looked up. “No, it’s still a dick move. Partly because ‘meant to be’ is bollocks. And partly because if it wasn’t bollocks and you were meant to be together forever, you’d be together forever whether you got married or not.”

“I know.” Bridge subsided sadly. “It’s just Luc was going to get married and, well—”

“If he blows this,” Priya put in, “he’s fucked because no one else will have him.”

I would have defended myself but, secretly, I kind of agreed. It wasn’t that I was with Oliver because I thought there was no other option. It was just that imagining non-Oliver options made my heart vomit.

“That’s not true,” Bridge was yelling, “Luc’s lovely.”

“No he’s not. He’s a complete wanker.”

“Well so are you”—I got back in the game—“and you’ve got two girlfriends.”

Priya shrugged. “As established: cool job, brilliant at sex.”

“I’m brilliant at sex,” I insisted.

Her eyes met mine and called bullshit on them. “Are you, Luc? Are you really?”

I thought about it. I’d had a lot of sex and, honestly, it had been pretty contextual. In the sense of whether it was good or not had more to do with who, when, where, and how rather than technical prowess of either party. “Solid B+,” I said.

“Yeah.” Priya opened a second beer. “Figures.”

Chapter 29

HALF AN HOUR LATER MY flat was looking worse, but I was feeling better. That’s the thing about mess—a stack of unwashed dishes says I hate myself and you should hate me too but the pile of empty bottles next to a scattering of chocolate wrappers and ice-lolly boxes said I hate myself but I have people in my life who remind me I shouldn’t.

“And we definitely think,” I said, taking what remained of the wine from Bridge’s hands and swigging direct from the bottle, “that this is an I’m-grieving situation, not an I’m-taking-the opportunity-to-bail-because-I’m-too-polite-to-dump-you situation.”