Josh trips up on himself, knocking his glass of water over on the table, where it spills all down the front of his pants. “Married? Aren’t you both a little young?” he says between struggling to absorb the water with his napkin.

“She’s joking,” Wyatt says. “We had to stand at the altar so they could do a test run of the vows, I guess.”

“I don’t know.” Lindsay smirks like a cat. “You both said ‘I do.’ The priest read all the marriage stuff—sounds to me like that’s legally binding.”

“It isn’t,” I say bluntly. “We’re not married.”

And we’re not dating.

We’re not together.

Lindsay gives me a quick glance before she grabs a napkin and helps Josh with the brand-new water stain on his pants.

“I think I’d better go change,” he says. “It looks like I peed myself.”

“Probably for the best,” Lindsay says. “Here, I’ll cover you.” She slips the sheer cardigan off her shoulders and hands it to him. When did the two of them get so friendly with each other? They’ve only ever met, like, three times before this week.

“Thanks.” Josh stands up. I’m not sure why he thinks that it’s less awkward to move around with a cardigan held awkwardly in front of his crotch, but whatever. Lindsay does her best to help cover him as they make their way out of the banquet hall.

“What’s going on?” Wyatt asks when Lindsay and Josh are out of earshot.

“Nothing.”

“You seem upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

Wyatt isn’t even saying anything, but I hate that they’re looking at me; I hate that they’re so obviously concerned. They shouldn’t be. They shouldn’t care about me at all. I’m not worth it.

“It’s nothing.”

“Okay! Geez, don’t bite my head off.”

“I’m not biting your head off!” I say.

“Yeah, you are.” There’s a moment of silence between Wyatt and me, the rest of the room going about like everything is normal, like their lives aren’t falling apart in front of them. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel.”

“Okay, sorry.” They put a hand on my thigh.

“Please, just stop touching me.”

Wyatt takes their hand back, and they give me this wounded expression.

This isn’t fair.

This isn’t fucking fair.

God, why can’t my brain just fucking be normal?

“I’m sorry, I just …”

I feel like I could cry.

“If something’s going on, we can talk about it.”

“Fine, yeah,” I say, letting the napkin in my lap fall to the floor. “Let’s talk.”