She looks at the next plate. “Matri-baloney sandwiches?”

“I was running out of ideas,” I admit. “And I know you can’t eat deli meats, that’s why there’s only half a sandwich there. Don ate the other half.”

“Chloe.” Annie looks at me with an unreadable expression on her face, and at first I think she’s mad.

“I mean . . . I can make another sandwich if you want. You can eat deli meat if it’s heated, right? Fried matri-baloney sandwiches? Is that a thing?”

But then she crushes me in a hug, and I realize that she’s crying. “You are the best friend in the world, you know that?”

I hug her back. “I’ve suspected it for a while, but it’s nice to have confirmation.”

She reaches behind my back and grabs one of the fries off the tray. “You made me a multitude of sauces? You know how much I love dips.”

“Your love of dips is one of your most defining personality traits,” I say. “Also, let’s order pizza, because I don’t want to eat that baloney sandwich.”

“Deal.”

We pick at the plate of fries and eat an unhealthy amount of Jell-O, avoiding the fruit skewers (turns out Uncle Don is right . . . they are kind of unappetizing), until the doorbell rings.

“I sincerely hope that’s a real pizza delivery man and not a pizza-delivery-themed stripper,” Annie says, heading toward the front door. I toss back another Jell-O shot, then hear her scream from the living room.

“What’s wrong?” I run in after her, only to find her doubled over in laughter, pointing toward shirtless Drew in the corner.

“He scared me,” she wheezes. “I thought we had a dirty, buff intruder hiding behind the palm frond.”

I snort a laugh, then answer the door and pay for the pizza.

“Whoa,” Annie says as I place three large pizzas on the coffee table. “That is more pizza than we can eat.”

“It’s your bachelorette party!” I say with force. “You can’t drink and you wouldn’t let me take you to a campy, tongue-in-cheek all-male revue, but damn it, we’re gonna get buckwild one way or another. I got extra cheese on these babies.”

Annie leans forward as I open one of the pizza boxes. “You really did go all out.”

We eat as much pizza as we humanly can while watching Annie’s choice of films (a Hugh Grant retrospective: Four Weddings and a Funeral, followed by Music and Lyrics, skipping Notting Hill because for some reason Annie doesn’t want to watch a movie where a regular person hooks up with a celebrity).

After we put the rest of the pizza in the fridge for Don to eat later, I lean back on the couch, full and content. “You know who I like?”

Annie looks at me, hands on her stomach. “Who?”

“That Hugh Grant. What a charmer.”

“A bold opinion. Oh geez. I ate way too much.”

“Look at you, getting into the spirit of hedonism. Do you want a Sprite?”