For about ninety seconds I felt real bile rising up in my stomach because people were awwwing for my arsehole ex and his jailbait boyfriend. Sorry, jailbait spouse. I’d sort of convinced myself that the wedding would prove to me that Miles was nothing but a tired hipster chasing a YouTube trophy husband and the ceremony would just be a self-congratulatory wankfest to cover their sham of a marriage. Except, in the end, the ceremony had been a self-congratulatory wankfest that had been…really sweet and meaningful. And rather than being doomed forever, it was clear that Miles and JoJo kind of had something.

And I was, once again, the one left behind with nothing.

Wait. No, I wasn’t. I hadn’t been that for years, even though I’d believed I was for quite a long time. It had been a pisser of a journey, but I was slowly working out that I was more than the shitty things that had happened to me. And one of the best things that had happened to me was sitting right there, helping me mock the vows at my ex-boyfriend’s wedding.

Which—and maybe I was an overcompensating person or just a rubbish person—was some #relationshipgoals shit right there.

I gave Oliver’s hand a little squeeze. I could do this. I could totally do this. I was fine.

Well. Fine-ish.

Fineoid.

Definitely heading in a fineular direction.

Maybe.

Chapter 14

ONCE THE CEREMONY WAS OVER and the new couple had finished kissing—which took longer than it had to—the celebration jumped straight to no-fucks-given dancing. Food was provided via a buffet along the sides of the room, and speeches were made intermittently by microphone from the main stage. In a lot of ways, had the context been very different, it would have been a great evening. I’d loved Bridge’s wedding because I loved Bridge, but sitting around while elderly relatives made corny jokes over a meal that, while exquisite, you’d never have ordered in a restaurant, wasn’t exactly the way most people I knew would choose to spend a Saturday. A gigantic party in a train tunnel with live music and speeches largely made by professional cabaret artists, on the other hand, was.

Or rather, it had been. Now I spent my Saturdays doing boyfriendly things like hoovering the living room and going to art galleries and/or IKEA, occasionally fielding calls from the James Royce-Royces because Baby J had done something so unbearably adorable that they had to tell everyone immediately. And it wasn’t that I missed my party days—at least not the way they’d ended with me drinking, dancing, and fellating my way into oblivion. But it had been good for a while, and looking back, it didn’t feel so much like something I’d grown beyond as something that had been taken from me.