“Please.” Denise picks up a pretzel and shoves it in her mouth. “Ahhh, I’m so excited. God, is that tar and stomach acid in your tumbler? I can smell it from here.”

I lift it to my nose and feel every hair in my eyebrows curl into coils. “Jesus, Mika. Is this gasoline?”

“You said you wanted something strong. That’s the strongest.”

Mika has been bartending at Stockings since I’ve known him; that’s how we met actually. I stumbled into the bar, looking for a good time, and he was the one serving. I, of course, was trying to hit on him because I was drunk and his black hair and gray eyes are hard not to drool at, but sad for me, he’s gay. Nonetheless, we formed a bond, and he’s now my best guy.

“That should be illegal,” Denise says, waving her hand in front of her nose. “Drink that and lose your esophagus.”

Mika plants an Angry Orchard in front of Denise. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not.” Denise takes a sip of her drink. “I’m scared for our friend.” She pokes me in the arm. “What could be that bad that you need a drink like that?”

“Strap in, because I have a story for you…”

When I set my drink down, I look up at my friends and find utter shock splayed across their faces, both blinking, both with their mouths open.

In the distance, our favorite drag queen, Miss Guided, takes the stage and cheers erupt all around us, but it’s all ignored as my friends process the day I just had.

After a few seconds, Denise says, “Why the hell would you say you have a husband?”

“I don’t know,” I say on a groan. “I panicked. She was in town for the first time in a long time, and I thought, why not try to impress her? But then she comes into the office, all friendly with the Brads and Chad, and I felt left out.”

“That’s not a way to fit in, Scottie. Ask her where her blouse is from. Don’t put a nonexistent ring on your finger.”

“I see that now,” I say and press my hand to my head. “God, what the hell am I going to do? This is such a nightmare. And the worst part, apparently her husband is the best of the best, like a one hundred percent success rate. So am I going to be the deranged one who can’t make it work with their husband?”

Denise scratches her ear. “No, you’re going to be the deranged one who shows up with a blow-up doll dressed in a suit, because you have no husband.”

I rub my eyebrows, my anxiety at an all-time high now. “So many bad choices were made today. So many.”