Two of the singles were conflict prone. Another two had a history of embarrassing Bee in public. Another was a woman Bee didn’t know at all, a friend of the groom’s family who had a reputation as a shut-in.

Bee’s wedding planner, who had become famous for planning the extravagant wedding of an ex-president’s daughter, had told Bee after examining her invite list, “No matter who you invite, there will be singles.

“You must expect an odd number,” the planner had said during their first meeting. “No matter what you plan to do, the singles always skew.”

Bee smoothed her eyebrows with the back of her right hand, her favorite nervous habit, and studied the circles and spokes, which reminded her of the puzzles she decoded on the LSATs years ago. There were five unseated guests, each of whom needed to be placed at a table. But each guest had a specific set of requirements, making it impossible to seat them at most tables. For instance, one single couldn’t be seated anywhere near her ex-boyfriend. Another single was often offensive and couldn’t be trusted around uptight adults—including Bee’s own family.

As Bee began scrambling the names and tables in her mind, she heard her mother enter the room behind her.

“Still with those five?” Bee’s mother, Donna Evans, said, letting out a dramatic sigh as she joined Bee at the dining-room table.

Donna wore a gray tank top that said “breathe” across the chest, the lowercase b and final e falling in line with her protruding nipples. Her matching yoga pants were cropped just below the knee. Donna’s artificially blonde curls, highlighted to the exact shade of her daughter’s, were pulled back into a tight bun.

“Just write them into the empty seats and be done with it,” Donna said, as Bee stared at her helplessly, her hands limp at her waist. “Honey, these people are going to spend half the night on the dance floor anyway.”

Donna let out a frustrated harrumph, and then pushed past her daughter so she could get a better look at the list of singles.

After squinting at the names for less than a minute, Donna grabbed a marker off the table and began to scribble on the board. She wrote Vicki Clifford’s and Rob Nutley’s names on the empty spoke next to the groom’s brothers and cousins. Next she printed Hannah Martin’s name in tiny letters above the circle representing the table occupied by Bee’s law-school friends and their spouses.

“We’ll add an extra chair,” Donna said, before Bee could protest that the table was already full. “The caterers can fit nine seats at a table for eight.”

Then, moving to the other side of the board, Donna wrote the names of the last two singles, Joe Evans and Nancy MacGowan, at the table with Bee’s father’s law partners and their wives.

Bee’s dad, Richard Evans, bellowed from next room. “I swear—if you’re both standing in front of that board in another five minutes, I’m going to take it outside and put it in the Dumpster and everyone at this wedding will seat themselves.”