“Yeah, it’s called a cell phone, dipshit. I texted her while you were in the middle of your it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech.” I stab an olive, imagining staking the toothpick right through his eyeball. I can’t believe that for half a second I thought we might be able to get out of this breakup like mature adults. Now I’m taking solace in the image of a plastic cocktail skewer burying itself in his pupil. Anger, keep the anger flowing. It’s far better than sadness. “For the record, I’d like to make it clear that you are one hundred percent right about that. It is most definitely you.”

His pout transforms into a scowl. “Why am I not surprised? You can’t even make it through one breakup conversation without needing someone to lean on.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re incapable of being alone, Lana. And frankly, it’s exhausting.”

“Your face is exhausting.” Ouch. That not-quite-a-comeback slips out before I can stop it.

“Are you sure you want me to leave? I wouldn’t want you to be by yourself for five whole minutes.” At least the maturity level has dropped across the board.

“I’ve literally never been more sure of anything in my life.” I swig the rest of my martini, and before I even set down the empty glass, another full one is sitting in its spot. Someone is getting a very large tip tonight. “And if I were you, I’d blow this joint before May arrives.” Unlike myself, my best friend would never hesitate to throw a drink, and there’s a fifty-fifty chance she might also throw a punch.

The skin beneath his spray tan pales. He reaches into his wallet and throws three hundreds down on the table. He pushes his chair back and stands, lingering for just a second too long. The quips and the insults fade away, leaving space for memories of the good times we managed to have over the last four years. “I really am sorry, Lana.”

Yeah, well, me too.

I expected to be leaving this restaurant engaged, our arms wrapped around one another, both of us happily buzzed on the complimentary champagne that would’ve accompanied my giant rock of a ring.

A ring that probably wouldn’t have looked anything like the hundreds I have pinned to my public wedding board, which I’ve conveniently left open on my laptop any time Evan has been at my house over the course of the last year.

But I would’ve grown to love it.

Just as we would’ve grown to hate each other.

“Bye, Evan,” I say, only to find he’s already left and I’m talking to my martini glass.

My empty martini glass.