“Leave Ros out of this!? Leave Ros out of this?! When have we ever left Ros out of this? You want to start leaving Ros out of this now, right this second, after years and years and years of being so obsessed with them that you can’t even see straight?”

“Shut up, Touchstone.”

“I think everyone should chill!” said Audrey.

“Do you honestly think they don’t know? That you’re subtle? News flash, Celia, you’ve never been subtle in your whole entire life, least of all when you’re offering to lick Ros’s boots and peel them a grape and tend to their every waking need!”

“Shut up,” I said.

“I don’t even know what makes me more angry, the fact that you are so obsessed with them or that they let you be obsessed with them! Oh, look who’s back, just waltzing in here whenever they fucking please,” said Touchstone. “How convenient. Oh, you know what’d be a good idea—why don’t you tell Celia your plan, Ros?”

“What plan?” I said.

“Oh, it’s a really great plan,” said Touchstone. “I heard them talking about it earlier. I warned you both a thousand times how thin the walls were, did I not?”

A pit was forming in my stomach.

This was not how the night was supposed to end. This was not how the story was supposed to go.

“Tell me,” I said. My voice had developed a steely edge.

They knew. They knew how I felt. And they did not care.

“I’m not coming back home with you in the fall,” said Ros. “I’m staying here with Jess.”

They explained. They explained, and they explained, and they explained. And I was honestly so angry I had trouble listening. They were still explaining when I lifted the untouched pie—the dessert that, in concert with the dress, in concert with the whole evening, was meant to change their mind—and hurled it at their head.

To this day, my father maintains that I could’ve been a great tennis player.

Here’s the thing: I’m not sure he’s wrong.