“You’re a freak and a stalker, that’s what you are.”

“And finally,” I say, ignoring his dumb dig, “I don’t need social media to know that last week, you snuck into one of our invite-only influencer events at the LACMA.”

“I didn’t sneak in to that event, okay? I am an influencer.”

“The hell you are. You were never on the invite list because I made the invite list.”

“Um, do you guys still want this?” A waiter has been hovering at the side of the table with the steaming veggies in one hand and a platter of gooey potatoes on the next.

“Yeah, she wants it.”

I’m not surprised misogynistic Chad answers for me but am surprised, however, when he continues talking.

“She wants it to go so she can eat it in the privacy of her own home, where she stalks people on the internet like a lonely, pathetic creep. Speaking of stalkers, Char, I was on MySpace back in the day, if you’re looking for something to dig up tonight.”

I’m thankful that Monica and Danny are canoodling at the head table and see none of the scene we’ve just made. I’m even more thankful that Chad has taken the cue and decided to leave.

“You can just leave both on the table,” I say to the waiter, never having been so happy to be alone with a double scoop of au gratin potatoes.

Chapter 2

“Dude. You’re home early,” my roommate, Casey, says. “How’d it go with Brad?”

“Chad,” I say, handing her his business card. “And not good. Not good at all.”

“Well, think of it this way. If you ever need a divorce...”

Her blasé response is the reminder I need to tread lightly on the marriage subject. I don’t bring my first husband up to people who didn’t know him. Casey didn’t know him, and so now (or ever) is not the time to have that bridge-crossing conversation. I change the subject.

“Has Leno gone out?” I ask, bending down and letting my dog lick my face as I scratch his cute little French bulldog butt. Even though I’m emotionally drained from my botched date with Chad, there’s something about my dog that instantly takes the edge off my mood, no matter what.

“Yup, I took him out about an hour ago.”

I tap my Apple Watch. It’s only 9:00 p.m. This is the earliest I’ve been home on a Saturday night in a long time, but what can I say? When your date leaves before the bread basket has made its way around the dinner table, you’re just not in the mood to stick around for the Chicken Dance with strangers.

“Wait a sec. Is that a dark lipstick I spy on you? I like it, Char!”

I promptly wipe my fingers over my lips in an effort to dismantle the final remnants of Monica’s all-for-nothing vampy red lipstick that can be seen from space. The red stain on my fingertips is a reminder that I wasted effort on a guy who probably only agreed to go to a wedding with me to see if I know how to twerk. For the record, I don’t.