“Seriously?” he said, moving toward the door. “I know you’ve basically moved out, but it’s not like you have to knock, you still live here, you can just let yourself in like a normal person—oh. It’s you.”

The surprise in his voice was palpable, which meant it could be only one person at the door. I shoved Touch out of the way before he could say anything offensive about Power Jam and held the door open wide for Oliver, who was standing on the lawn in his glasses, pressed linen trousers, and a pink short-sleeve button-down, holding a plate of deviled eggs and looking a bit wary.

“I wasn’t sure I was in the right place,” Oliver said. “You look—wow, Celia. You look stunning.”

“What is he doing here?” Touchstone whispered to me as Oliver passed by us and walked into the house. “I thought tonight was supposed to be about us. You, me, and Ros.”

“You invited Audrey,” I said.

“Yeah, because you told me to, and as a friend,” Touchstone said.

“Oliver’s my friend.”

“Tell him that,” said Touch, rolling his eyes.

“Is that my yeti friend?” called Phoebe.

Thank God for Phoebe over and over and over. She hugged Oliver like an old friend, popped a deviled egg into her mouth, and spent the next ten minutes insisting we all try them. Audrey uncorked her bottle of wine and poured it into the pink glasses for all of us except Oliver, who begged off saying he had to drive home and rehearse the next day (“Ooh, how responsible,” Touchstone muttered, which prompted me to kick him in the shin under the table, which probably hurt my bare toe more than it hurt Touchstone’s sharp-ass shin). The wine tasted a little funny to me—was wine really supposed to have that much of a sting?—but I figured at the very least it would help me calm down, so I glugged a half glass and waited to feel more relaxed.

Oliver hugged me hello. He smelled amazing, like the outdoors—cedar and just the faintest hint of moss—and I let the hug linger for longer than I might have otherwise. I wished that Ros were there to see it.

“No wonder you dressed up,” Audrey whispered to me, throwing a dramatic, meaningful glance in Oliver’s direction.

I smiled, washed down another (delicious) deviled egg with another sip of (painful) wine, and didn’t bother to correct her, that the person I’d dressed up for wasn’t even here, that I was still waiting for them to come through the door and lose their mind at the sight of me.

The dinner.

Oh, God.

The dinner.

It’s Jess who remembers. She sits up in bed and throws a hand to her forehead.

“Oh, shoot,” she says, “wasn’t your friends’ dinner party tonight?”