Except it isn’t my outfit I’m afraid of Chaz teasing me about.

Not that I’m about to mention this, either.

“Luke,” I say. “The whole point of our not living together is so that we can use this time of our engagement to explore who we are as individuals, so that when we come together as a married couple we’ll have a clearer idea of exactly what we want out of—”

“Lizzie,” Luke says. “I know all that. I was there when you made that little speech, remember? Can’t a guy just want to see his girlfriend?”

I sigh, visions of my fun evening of high-fashion photos and bubbles going down the drain. Literally. “I’ll be there around seven.”

The bar is crowded, but thankfully not smoky, since New York City banned all smoking indoors and actually enforces it. I find Luke and Chaz in a booth beneath one of the dozens of televisions hanging suspended from the ceiling and blaring college basketball games. Luke leaps up to kiss me hello. Chaz, I see, is wearing one of his ubiquitous (except when he’s in evening wear) University of Michigan baseball hats, pulled down low over his hair. He is unshaven and looking a little rough around the edges… rougher, even, than when I’d seen him last, after a night of too much champagne…

And too much other stuff as well.

“Come on,” Luke says to me, grinning his adorable grin. “Show him.”

I’ve slid into the booth beside Luke, and am taking off my coat and unwinding my scarf.

Chaz is nursing a beer, his eyes on the game above my head.

“Luke,” I say, blushing, though I don’t know why. “No.”

“Come on,” Luke says. “You know you want to.”

Chaz’s gaze flicks down from the television screen and onto me. “Show me what?”

Luke lifts my left hand to show Chaz my engagement ring. Chaz lets out a long, low whistle, even though of course he’s already seen it. “Nice,” he says.

Luke’s grin is now ear-to-ear.

“Let me get you a drink,” he says to me. “I’ll just run up to the bar, since the waitress takes forever. White wine?”

I nod. “That’d be great… ” I wonder if I need to remind him to get it with a side of ice. I hate warm white wine, and I can never seem to drink it fast enough. It’s tacky, but lately I’ve started asking for my white wine with a glass of ice on the side. It also lasts longer and has less calories that way.

“Be back in a flash,” Luke says before I have a chance to say anything, as I slide to let him out of the booth to go to the bar, then slip back into the seat he’s just vacated.

Oh well. He’ll remember about the ice.

Chaz has lifted his gaze back to the game over my head. I clear my throat.

“Thank you for the roses,” I say quickly, to get it over with, and before Luke gets back. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” Chaz says shortly, still not looking at me. “I did.”

“Well.” I see that Luke is still frantically trying to get the bartender’s attention, so I lay a hand—my right—over Chaz’s. “Thank you. It meant a lot to me. You have no idea.”

Chaz looks down at my hand. Then he looks back into my eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

I pull my hand away, stung—though I’m not sure why.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

Chaz chuckles and reaches for his beer. “Nothing. God, what are you so defensive for? I thought you and Luke were so blissfully happy.”

“We are!” I squeak.

“Well, then”—he tilts his beer at me in a toast—“mazel tov.”

“You don’t seem very depressed,” I can’t keep myself from remarking.

Then I immediately want to kill myself.

He seems almost to choke on the mouthful of beer he just swallowed.

“Depressed?” he echoes when he’s recovered enough to speak. “Who said I’m depressed?”

I look around for a conveniently loaded pistol. Sadly, there doesn’t appear to be one available, so I have no choice but to answer the question.

“Luke,” I mutter shamefacedly. “He thinks you’re depressed because he’s getting married and you’re all alone.”

“Luke would think that,” Chaz says with a smirk.

“So… you’re not depressed?” I ask, feeling a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe suicide won’t be necessary, just this once.

Chaz looks me dead in the eye and says, “Why, yes, Lizzie. I’m manically depressed because the girl I’ve finally realized I’ve always been in love with, and who I was beginning to think just might love me back, turned around and got herself engaged to my best friend, who, frankly, doesn’t deserve her. Does that answer your question?”

It’s the weirdest thing, but my heart seems to do a flip-flop in my chest, and for a second, I can’t breathe, nor can I drop my gaze from his.

Then I realize he’s joking.

And I feel my cheeks begin to burn.

He’s joking. Of course he’s joking. God, I’m such a fool.

“What does it matter to you?” I demand, ignoring his sarcasm. I’m furious at myself—for thinking he meant it when he said he loved me, but even more, for having felt bad that I’d hurt him. He can’t be hurt. I mean, obviously he can. But not by me. Never by me. “You should be relieved you escaped my sights. You don’t even believe in marriage. It’s just a slip of paper, right? That’s what you said, anyway.”

“You got that right.” Chaz has leaned back to watch the game. “You want a happy romantic relationship? Don’t ruin it by getting married.”

I blink at him. I can’t believe he’s serious.

“Since when did you start feeling this way?” I ask. “You never felt like this about marriage when you were with Shari. You two were the picture of connubial bliss. Without the connubial part. But you were always making pies and doing her laundry and stuff… ”

“Yeah,” Chaz says, still not taking his gaze off the television screen… although I notice he’s set his jaw. “Well, she left me, remember? For a woman. Believe me, I won’t be making that mistake again. Marriage is for suckers.”

“You don’t mean that,” I say, a little shocked at his bitter tone.

“Don’t I?” He smirks at the screen. “I think I know what I’m talking about. My dad’s a divorce lawyer, remember?”

“And yet he’s been married to your mom,” I say, “for like, what, thirty years?”

I can’t believe I’m still upset about the I’ve always been in love with you remark, which, considering all the making out we were doing in the back of that cab on New Year’s, wasn’t really in the best of taste. I’m even more upset about the way my heart had reacted to the information. What had that been about?

And how, even for one second, could I ever actually have believed him?

I know I’m a naïve Midwestern girl. But I really try not to act like one. Most of the time.

“I try to keep that on the down low,” Chaz says. “The happily married parents thing doesn’t really go with my whole persona. You know, newly single philosophy Ph.D. candidate, living alone in an East Village walk-up, hard drinking, hard living, kind of dangerous—”

Now it’s my turn to smirk.

“What?” Chaz drags his gaze from the television screen and eyes me. “You don’t think I’m dangerous?”

“Not in that hat,” I say.

“Oh, I’m dangerous,” Chaz assures me. “More dangerous than Luke.”

“I don’t like Luke because he’s dangerous,” I point out.

“Oh, right,” Chaz says. “You like him… why? Because he’s rich? Handsome? Suave? Debonair? Thoughtful? Kind? Going to save the children someday?”

“All of the above,” I say, “except rich. I intend to make my own money, thank you, so I have no need of his. In fact, I just took on Ava Geck as a client today.”

“The skanky crack whore?” Chaz looks horrified.

“Why does everyone call her that?” I ask in annoyance. “No one has ever actually seen her do crack or have sex in exchange for money, and yet everyone calls her a skanky crack whore.”

“I don’t have to see her do it,” Chaz says. “Have you ever checked out Celebrity Pit Fight?”

It’s my turn to look horrified. “What is a hard-drinking, hard-living, philosophy Ph.D. candidate doing watching Celebrity Pit Fight?”

Chaz grins. “It’s a really good show,” he says. “I mean, if you’re ever in the mood to examine one of the bleaker examples of the depraved depths to which we as a society have sunk. Or at least the depraved depths to which the entertainment industry is determined to make us think we’ve sunk.”

“Hey.” Luke slides back into the booth and hands me my glass of wine. “Sorry that took so long. This place is a madhouse. There are five different games on.”

I notice with a slight feeling of disappointment that he’s forgotten to get a side of ice. Oh well. We’ve been going out for only six months, after all. He can’t remember everything.

“You forgot the ice,” Chaz says. “Luke, tell your girlfriend she isn’t going to get ahead in the wedding gown biz if she takes on skanky crack whores as clients.”

I blink, not quite able to believe Chaz remembered.

“What ice?” Luke looks confused. “Wait. Who’s a skanky crack whore?”

“No one,” I say at the same time that Chaz says, “Ava Geck.”

“Who’s Ava Geck?” Luke wants to know.

Chaz guffaws. I take a hasty sip of my wine, knowing what’s coming.

“Do you even watch television?” Chaz asks Luke. “Do you ever even read a periodical besides The Wall Street Journal? Tell me, because I really want to know. When you’re in the dentist’s office, do you ever, even by accident, pick up a copy of Us Weekly?”

“Stop it,” I say to Chaz. I’m getting annoyed with him now. More annoyed, maybe, than the situation warrants. “Just because Luke doesn’t know who Ava Geck is—”