Amy says nothing, but her gaze travels over my face, heating my skin.

“What?”

“What does your fiancé think?” she asks after a quiet moment.

“My ex-fiancé didn’t like it any more than I did. But what could he do about it?”

“Sorry.” She cringes. “Did I already know that? That he was your ex?”

“I haven’t talked about it much, so maybe not.”

After another beat of silence she says, “Do you...want to talk about it?” Amy’s face is contorted into a mask of discomfort.

“Talking about it looks like the very last thing you want to do.”

Her laugh is stilted. “I’m not great with advice. But if you ever want to grab a drink and unload...”

“Thanks,” I say quietly. The sound of her frustration, the feeling of my own, is far too fresh to want to take her up on that offer. But much like I know if I told her I’m queer, she’d be supportive and happy for me, I believe her when she says she’d let me talk at her about all the weird shit that’s been going on in my head since.

She nods at the phone. “So what’s Paul up to now?” she asks. “Now that he’s not marrying girls off of Pop-Up Kitchen?”

I open the app, ignoring her dig about our whirlwind romance and fast engagement. The screen fills with Paul’s and Camilla’s faces again. “See for yourself.” I turn the phone toward her. “Have you eaten at a Camilla Vargas restaurant before?” I ask. “She’s championed the shift toward non-animal proteins in the last few years.” I add a little dig of my own.

Amy narrows her eyes. I stare back. I said what I said.

She smirks, sending a thrill through me, before dropping her gaze to the phone.

“What’s this?” She frowns, pulling the phone from my fingers. Her light brown eyes travel over the screen. She huffs. “Sophie, what is this?” She flips the phone back at me.

“It’s what Paul’s up to. He’s producing a new show.” I gesture at Camilla in her sexy white sheath dress, her dark hair cascading in loose curls over one shoulder. Paul next to her, he’s let the gray grow in around his temples and he’s clearly been hitting the gym since we broke up. We used to go to Natalie’s together, but he’s found a new trainer who’s clearly got him on a bulking regimen. He’s beefed up.

With space and time from when I first saw the announcement, I can admit Paul looks handsome. He looks hot, actually. So does Camilla.

When I finally confronted the truth, that straight girls don’t think about kissing other girls, they don’t get crushes, and they certainly don’t get themselves off to the idea of getting another woman off with their mouths, I considered I might be gay. Then promptly spiraled into panic since I had recently accepted a marriage proposal from a man.

I spent weeks staring at Paul, at our male friends, complete strangers, trying to understand the attraction I felt. The scientific conclusions I came up with were: