To cope, I’m going to distract myself until some epiphany comes crashing down on me like a piano from the sky. For now, I’ll drink a bowl of wine and drown my worries in fermented grapes.

After a distracted shower and a change of clothes, I have a name for my problem, and that’s a step. I’m calling it the Jamie Paradox. I need Jamie to carry out my revenge—and I will have my revenge—and I need distance from him so I don’t fall down the slippery slope of infatuation straight into dangerous territory that I won’t even name.

“Love!” Margo hollers from the kitchen, a spatula pointed in my direction. I wince like she’s thrown me a curse. “I can see it in your eyes already.”

“You are not playing it cool like we agreed,” Sula says over her shoulder from a corner of the sofa. “Hey, Bea.” She raises her wineglass in greeting.

“Hey, yourself,” I tell her. “The hair’s purple. I like it.”

She smiles up at me. “Needed a change. Well, I was going to be subtle, but Margo blew that, so I’ll just ask: how are things with the tall and dashing West?”

“Things are just fine with Jamie, thank you very much.”

Sula lifts a purple eyebrow. “Seemed more than fine when you kissed at the bowling alley.”

“You should have seen them after their dinner date last night,” Jules calls from inside the fridge, pulling out a fresh bottle of white wine. “Freaking adorable. We all said it at Jean-Claude’s party, and we were right: how adorable would they be together?”

My teeth grind. Lovely. I get to freak out about my Jamie infatuation and endure group gloating.

“I know things started off a little rocky,” Sula says, “but I still think it’s romantic.”

“Hmm.” I fold my arms across my chest, annoyance clawing at my skin. “I need wine for this.”

“You’re not going to tell us anything?” Margo offers me a taste of snack mix and watches me expectantly.

“More salt. And nope.”

She frowns and adds a few shakes of sea salt. “This new tight-lipped version of Bea is not working for me. I reject this upgrade.”

“That’s why we’re having a romance movie night,” Jules tells her. “We’re getting BeeBee boozed and heart-eyed with some wine and rom-coms, then she’s going to tell us everything.”

“Rom-coms?” I wrinkle my nose. “Give me angst. I want suffering. “Give me Shakespeare in Love. Atonement. Blue Valentine—”

“God, stop,” Toni says, strolling out from the bathroom. “Next, you’ll be calling for Titanic. Those aren’t romances. We are here for happy endings, am I right?”

I accept his hug begrudgingly because I’m still miffed at all these meddlers, no matter their varying degrees of guilt.

“Hug me back, you goober,” he says.