“412.”

I look at my room key. 410.

Great. Just… great.

“Looks like we’re neighbors,” I say.

“I’m 431. Guess I’m in the other direction,” Angela says, with what sounds like relief. “See you all later.” She sets off to the right, trotting.

The rest of us turn left, trooping down a long, hushed hallway hung with prints of sailing ships.

I stop at number 410. “So we’ll see you at the rehearsal tomorrow,” I offer, my hand on the door handle.

Kevin keeps walking to their door. “I really need a shower. You coming, Jamey?” He disappears inside.

“Just a sec.” Jamey hesitates, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “It’s really good to see you, Carrie. I think about you all the time. I... I miss you. Are things really going well?”

“What do you mean? Of course! I’ve never been happier.” I push the door open and drag my bags inside. Jamey moves to help but I turn, blocking his way. I do not want him inside this room… our room. Where we were supposed to stay, together. Like always. “Thanks. I have to get ready for Ryan now. He’ll be here soon. Any minute. So… ” I’m closing the door now, not looking at him.

“Maybe we can talk later,” he says.

“Maybe.”

The door clicks shut and I lean my back against it, eyes shut tight. I will not cry. I will not cry.

My phone pings with a text, and I pull it out of my bag.

It’s Ryan: Hey beautiful almost there what’s our room number?

RYAN

I swing into the semi-circular driveway at the resort and end up third in line. Valet parking. Of course. My 1992 Mazda Miata is an oldie but goodie, the original red shine a little duller, but she made the trip from California to Massachusetts just fine when I moved here a few years ago. Weekly car washes in the winter keep her rust-free.

My sisters call her my first love. Pretty sure they’re right. Dad helped me buy her and we rebuilt the engine together the summer between high school and college. 119,000 miles and going strong. I love going for rides during leaf-peeper season in Maine and Vermont, the only time of year I run up the miles on my baby. Fun day trips.

Now that I’ve seen more of the Cape, I’m thinking we need some summer excursions, too.

We. Me and Carrie.

I move up to second in line and run my hands on my thighs, hoping I don’t leave sweat marks. It’s all pretend, this boyfriend-for-the-wedding act, but it’s also real. Too real. It’s almost more real by being fake.

I get to touch her. Kiss her. Be an animal in public who can’t get enough of her, all to show everyone that she’s moved on.

But this is also my chance. Fake it ‘til you make it, right?

A valet takes my information, asking for the room number. I text Carrie. I give him the number.

A hotel room. One bed. Ocean view. Alone with Carrie at a romantic seaside inn, at a wedding. Weddings are like tiramisu for women. The aphrodisiac that just keeps on coming.

Or something like that.

I check in and take the stairs up, hanging bag in hand. By the time I use my cardkey, I’m a little sweaty, a lot excited, and as I enter the room I freeze.

Carrie’s luscious ass faces me, on the bed. Her head is down and she’s crying.

Not the greeting I expected.

But that view. That ass. Her skirt is pulled up, exposing her knees and thighs, the soft undercurve of her sweet, round ass just peeking out from the hem. Her entire body is shaking and she’s sobbing, her fists punching the pillow she’s buried her face in.

Without taking my eyes off her, I hang my suit bag on the closet door and stop, taking a deep breath. She doesn’t realize I’m here. I have an unadulterated, unfettered view of pretty much every man’s fantasy (minus the clothing), until she sits up and turns around, still on her knees, ass up, her hair swinging over the back of her shoulder, her face submissive and pleading.

Oh, kitten.

I know, I know. Her emotional state should trigger empathy in me, right? I’ll get there. I will. Give me a minute. Maybe even two.

“Ryan!” Carrie starts sobbing, again, her face crumpling. I take one big step toward her and halt, struggling not to show that I need to adjust my, uh…. stride before I can reach her.

I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for her shoulder. “You saw Jamey, didn’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“Wild guess.”

She lets out an adorable little huff of sad laughter. I look at her, stroking the wet hair off her face, tears ravaging her makeup. With wide, red-rimmed eyes and flushed cheeks, she looks so helpless.

So beautiful.

“I got here too late, huh? Sorry, traffic on Route 6 was terrible.”

“You’re actually early. It’s okay.”

“No, C-Shel. It isn’t. No guy is worth being like this over.” Except me, I think, and I’d never do this to you.

“Thanks. It’s just… Jamey was with Kevin, and — ”

“So he did bring him after all?”

“YES!” she wails. “And he’s cuter than me!”

I look at the stamped-tin ceiling and scratch my chin, trying not to laugh. “I seriously doubt that.”

“He’s tan. And fit. Fit like you! And he has great pores! It’s like God’s mindfucking me. I mean, who finds a guy with great pores? My pores are like the Grand Canyon cloned a million times! I’ve been replaced by a Ralph Lauren ad. Kevin runs an antique map store and he has better skin. And better clothing taste. And — “

“And he’s gay,” I say softly. “Like Jamey. Your pores had nothing to do with it. You did nothing wrong, kitten.”

She frowns. “Did you just call me ‘kitten’?”

Oh, shit.

“Um, yeah. Just, you know — practicing. I came up with some great names for you. You know. For when we’re being boyfriend and girlfriend.”

The frown disappears.

I leave out the words in public on purpose.

“Oh.” Sniff. “That makes sense.” Sniff. “I like it.” My hand migrates to her back, between her shoulder blades, and I rub the spot, feeling her melt beneath my touch.

“You do? Okay, Kitten.”

She smiles. “Like a sex kitten.” Sniff.