The outpouring of horror was just as I hoped.

“No fucking way.”

“That ho.”

“Talk about being a backstabbing bitch.”

They were good friends.

“Is that why you haven’t gotten off Instagram today?” Imogen asked. This, coming from a woman who was dead set on broadcasting her entire life on social media. None of us were allowed to take a bite of our meals until she had artistically messed up the table and taken pictures of everything. It was annoying, of course, especially when our eggs got cold, but no one ever said anything, so I didn’t either. There was a time I used to daydream about her choking on her avocado toast, eyes bulging as she gasped and spluttered for air, just so she would let me eat in peace, but I’ve gotten used to the constant Instagramming now.

I guess I had nothing to lose by talking about it. Dr. Dunn would probably applaud. Talking about things is one of the best ways to cleanse your soul. Maybe he was right.

I took a deep breath.

“You guys know my friend Kaavi. She was my best friend growing up and in college?”

“I think you might have mentioned her, but I can’t really remember.”

“Anyway, yeah. She’s marrying the guy I was dating all through college. She posted about it on Instagram. That’s how I found out.”

I flushed. It was horrible when everyone’s focus was on me like this. I stared at my own drink as they made all the right faces, said all the right things.

“What a fucking bitch!”

“I’d be so pissed if I were you!”

“Show us the post!”

And so I hesitantly passed my phone over, while they continued to be aghast at what Kaavi had done to me.

I took comfort in their disdain. It was good to feel validated. To feel heard, for once. To not feel insignificant.

I even finished my eggs. Drank half my mimosa. My friends were getting rowdier, already on their third round of cocktails.

“And you know what I can’t stand? That bitch’s hair. I mean, honey, please, blond streaks on South Asian hair don’t make you look like Beyoncé. They make you look like a fucking German shepherd.” Deepa laughed and Imogen reached across the table and high-fived her.

I laughed along with them. It was the easiest thing to do. I finally had people on my side.

“You know what you should do?” The mimosas were starting to get to Jessica. I knew by the way she dragged her “sh”s. It normally made me wish her butter knife would miss her bread and slash her wrist instead, but it was easy to overlook these annoyances when it felt like your friends were finally on your wavelength.

“You should fly down there. And when the priest does that whole, oh, you know, the whole speak now or forever hold your peace bit, you should stand up and tell everyone that backstabbing bitches shouldn’t be allowed to get married.”