“Married?” She frowned, her mouth clamping around an airy piece of buttery cake. “No, Callichka. Dylan didn’t get married.” “She’s pregnant.” I gestured to my ex–best friend, as though this fact couldn’t be detected from Neptune. I knew I sounded judgmental. Plenty of people had children out of wedlock. This wasn’t the forties. But Dylan had always wanted a grand wedding. With a golden carriage and unicorns and white doves and five different dresses. She’d had ripped Vogue pages folded neatly inside her underwear drawer with flower decoration inspiration, like Pinterest didn’t exist. “That’s
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