By Any Other Name(33)

“Our point is,” Rufus says, “you and Ryan are both boneable, successful, decent people. Stone-cold catches. It makes sense that you tried to make it work.”

I run my finger over the ring in the box on the table. When the jeweler called this morning to schedule the pickup, I’d laughed so manically into the phone that I definitely freaked him out. I’d swung by the shop on my way to brunch, a now-or-never feeling in my heart. The jeweler had asked me to try it on before I left, but I knew if I did that, I would have started weeping. Which I didn’t want to do, not until I was safely and anonymously walking through Central Park.

I know the ring probably fits perfectly. It’s beautiful and tragic. I can’t bring myself to take it out of the box.

“We would have been really unhappy,” I say to Meg and Rufus. It helps to say it aloud.

“Eh, happiness is overrated,” Meg says. “The first few years of parenting is like watching the man you used to want to fuck twenty-four/seven be slow-motion Frankensteined into a pastiche of every quality you loathe—”

“Meg,” Rufus says, giving her a look. “We are here to instill hope, remember? That there’s something better out there?”

“I’m just doing my due diligence,” Meg says. “In case the two of them get back together—”

“We won’t get back together,” I say.

“You sure?” Rufus says.

“Real sure?” Meg asks.

“I’m sure.” I stare at them. “What?”

Rufus lets out a low whistle and makes eyes at Meg. “Well, then, we can move into the honesty portion of the brunch.”

“What the hell have you been doing until now?” I demand.

Just then, our server appears with an ice bucket of prosecco and a tray of shots. She’s peppy and ponytailed, and before she even sets the drinks down, all of us reach for the tequila and take it in a gulp. I gag a little, and also wish I had another.

“Ohmigod, who just got engaged?” the server asks, bright as the glaring sun. She glances around at the three of us, trying to make sense of the dynamic. “That ring is gorgeous. I want one just like it someday!”

“Take it,” I growl at her.

She flinches, glances at Rufus as she fiddles with the foil on the prosecco. “Is she okay?”

“Leave us,” Rufus whispers and eases the bottle out of the server’s hand.

“Wait, before you go,” Meg says, making a stop sign with her hand. “We’ll take a large platter of all your pickles, deviled eggs, an order of fried chicken and French toast, and one deluxe French dip.”

“Are you pregnant again?” Rufus asks, sizing up Meg.

“Rufus, I just ordered enough alcohol to pickle all three of us. But, this was my go-to brunch when I was pregnant, and it is perfection, thank you very much.”

As soon as the server walks away, I stare down both my friends. “Start talking. And not about pickles. You hated Ryan? All this time?”

“No, no, we liked him,” Rufus says, his tone tactful. “He was a fabulous boyfriend. Capital F, capital B. Meg and I both appreciated the eye candy, especially that weekend at the Jersey Shore.”

“Remember his red bathing suit?” Meg makes a sizzling sound. She’s already flushed from the tequila.

“But,” Rufus says, “we’re . . . glad you’re not going to marry him.”

“Was it just me,” Meg says, “or was he always looking for reasons you should quit your job?”

I nod. I sigh. “He started working that angle on our second date.”

“And the religion thing?” Rufus says, untwining the wire around the prosecco cork. “You would really have deprived us of your legendary Passover seders?”

“You just like to make fun of my gefilte fish,” I say.

“That is not fish. It’s just not. Also? Ryan called me Randall every time I saw him,” Rufus says. “For three years.”

“He did not!” I gasp. “That is deeply un-presidential.”

“Yeah, I’m not voting for him,” Rufus says, and pops the cork on the bottle. “Opa!”

“So, what are we drinking to?” I ask as he fills my flute.

“To you not moving to D.C.,” Rufus says.

“To you never being fucking FLOTUS!” Meg says.

“I will drink to that,” I say and raise my glass. “No offense, Michelle.”

“No offense, Michelle,” they echo and drink, too.

We sip our Kate Mosses and watch the city waking up around us, the hot dog vendor setting up on the street corner, the stroller parades of the Upper West Side, the bike messengers banging on windows of careless Uber drivers. We’re quiet for a while, and it’s nice. I feel scaffolded by my friends.

Then the sun peeks out from behind a cloud, making the 1.5-carat diamond glint.

“What am I going to do about this ring?” I say, wanting to cry again.

“Does he want it back?” Rufus asks.

“Beats me, he won’t answer my calls or texts.”

“Ryan is so the kind of guy who will not take back the ring,” Meg says. “He’ll see it as some magnanimous gesture. Very gauche for a politician to take back a ring.”