The problem was, I wasn’t actually sure why I needed to. I was calling it closure because that seemed a healthy and usefully vague label I could point other people at. And maybe it was closure. Maybe after tonight the little box in my head that had Miles written on it would finally be closed, and I’d never have to think about him—or what we’d been to each other or what he’d done to me—ever again.

Besides, if it wasn’t closure…what did that mean? What was I trying to prove? Or, if I wasn’t trying to prove anything, what was I looking for? Or, if I wasn’t looking for anything, what the fuck was I doing here?

Fuck.

It turned out that Miles, true to form, had chosen to get married in an abandoned railway tunnel lined with artisanal graffiti. It would have been a cool and daring choice except this particular abandoned railway tunnel lined with artisanal graffiti was a fully licenced venue, with its own bar. Right now, the exposed brickwork was splashed with rainbow-coloured lights because it was going to be one of those gay weddings.

“We still don’t have to do this,” said Oliver. And this time I was pretty sure it wasn’t for my benefit.

“Sorry,” I whispered. “At least twelve people I know have already seen me. And while I think no-showing at your ex’s wedding is fine, about-facing it isn’t.”

Mercifully, Miles and JoJo were far too trendy to do assigned seating—much as I’d enjoyed having a confused usher come up to me at the James Royce-Royces’ wedding and ask me “groom or groom”—which meant Oliver and I got to skulk at the back like we hadn’t done our homework. I kept hold of Oliver’s hand, partially because it was nice and partially just to apologise.

He leaned in slightly. “I bet you fifty pounds they have a drag queen officiating.”

Okay, this was going to be way more fun if I’d accidentally brought mean Oliver with me. “I am absolutely not taking that bet,” I whispered back.

Then I paused. I’d put off it for as long as I could, but I had eventually cracked and web stalked the guy my ex was marrying. And that led me down a hell of a rabbit hole because he was a fucking YouTuber, with a subscriber count in the millions. He had several channels dedicated to various areas of his life, including a new one just for wedding prep, but his main source of “influence” revolved around videos of him looking fabulous and claiming you could look similarly fabulous if you followed his tips and bought the products his sponsors paid him to recommend. Point was, there was no way he was going to be upstaged by anyone on his big day.

“Actually,” I said, “you’re on.”