“Of course she can come.” I brush off her nonexistent trepidation with a smile and a flick of my hand. “I already like her.”

“Do you need to check with G?” she asks. I swallow my hatred for when she calls him that. She has this strange obsession with him—every glance in his direction more loving than anything I could offer. It’s platonic, almost sisterly, but it annoys me nonetheless. It’s a stab to the rib cage with a blunt knife, a subtle reminder that she knew him first.

“Nope,” I offer, flatly, without explanation. Taking back my upper hand.

To our right, the hostess appears, pointing a petite woman toward our table.

I brush Lena off and take a deep breath, remembering my story—our story—and how much Sarah is going to swoon when she hears it, like a little girl watching a rom-com. Because that’s what Graham and I are: a real-life You’ve Got Mail.

“Sarah?” I stand and Lena follows as she approaches with an outstretched hand. I immediately notice her skin, pore-less and wrinkle-less. If only one-hundred-and-twenty-five-dollar creams could do to me what her genetics have done for free. She looks even more petite up close, drowning in an oversized gray plaid blazer and skinny jeans. Shouldn’t she know that no one wears skinny jeans anymore? Doesn’t she read her own style section?

“Ms. Bennet.” She clears her throat as she sits, like she’s a little out of breath. “Or should I say Mrs. Walker?”

I offer a tight-lipped smile. You’d think progressive women like her would stop assuming progressive women like me will automatically take our husbands’ last names. I’d had this fight with Graham too many times to count but, of course, I won—“my body my choice” and all that. He didn’t have much of a leg to stand on. And, practically speaking, it eliminates a lot of unnecessary paperwork.

“She’s keeping her name,” Lena says, defensive, spreading her feminist tail feathers like a peacock during courting season. “I’m Lena. Maid of honor,” she adds, a title she’s given herself without any of the traditionally associated work. They shake and sit across from each other, Lena smiling kindly but ready to pounce like a boxer the second the bell goes off.

“Thank you so much for meeting me,” Sarah says. “I know this is very last minute. I’m sorry your fiancé couldn’t make it.”

“He’s sorry, too.” I frown, shaking my head. “I’ll make sure you can catch him on the big day and he can answer any lingering questions.”