I don’t have to turn around to know that the girl Andrea is so concerned about won’t be matchy-matchy with anyone. Ethan’s new girlfriend has a distinct style that the socially polite set refers to as unique and the total snobs among us would call weird. In my circle, there’s nothing worse than weird.

“What the hell is she wearing?” Sarah asks cattily.

It’s no secret that my friends fall into the snob category, Bella excepted most of the time. Sarah’s the worst of the lot, and not for the first time in my life I wonder why I continue to let her pretend we’re friends.

Knowing that they’ll continue to hover around me like a pack of glamorous guard dogs until I’ve dealt with the newcomers, I sneak a tiny peek over my shoulder at where Ethan and Stephanie stand talking to a mutual family friend.

My heart twists the tiniest bit at the sight of Ethan. In his gray slacks, perfectly tailored white shirt, and Burberry tie, he looks as well groomed and gorgeous as ever. He has the dark blond hair and broad shoulders better suited to Hollywood than the Manhattan business world, but luckily he’s got the brains and the charm to keep his head above water amid the Manhattan sharks.

Then I look at her.

From the sneer on my friends’ faces, I was expecting Stephanie to be wearing torn jeans, a leopard-print catsuit, or something else ridiculous, but the truth is she looks kind of cute. Her dark eye makeup is the perfect complement to her wide blue eyes, and the strapless gray dress would be downright demure if not for the bright orange belt around her tiny waist. She’s paired the whole thing with these beat-up-looking riding boots, which, while not exactly an Upper East Side standard, gives the whole effect of a girl comfortable with herself.

Of course she’s comfortable. She’s perched on the arm of the boy you thought you were going to marry.

I push the bitchy thought away. I’ve had months to accept that Ethan isn’t coming back. Hell, I was even the one who insisted that he and his new girlfriend be invited to the party. Ethan’s parents and mine have been best friends since long before we were even in the womb. I’m not about to let a little thing like betrayal throw a wrench in that.

“You okay, Liv?” Bella asks softly.

I tear my eyes away from Ethan and Stephanie. “Yeah. Give me a minute, though, ’kay?” I hand her my champagne glass. “And don’t let them attack Stephanie,” I murmur to my best friend.

But escaping is no easy task. I’m stopped at least five times by well-wishers who want to tell me that they always knew I had such a good heart.

Ha.

Finally I’m able to pour myself a glass of my raspberry iced tea to stave off the impending headache and head toward the stairs to escape to my bedroom, just for a couple of minutes.

My mother grabs my arm. “Where are you going?”

I point down at my six-hundred-dollar Jimmy Choo pumps. “Blister. I just want to grab a Band-Aid.”

Mom’s green eyes—the ones everyone is always saying are identical to my own—narrow slightly, but her grip eases on my arm. “Everyone is so proud of you,” she says, looking both relieved and delighted. “Holly Sherwitz said she wouldn’t be surprised to see you win a Nobel Peace Prize someday.”

Inside, I’m cracking up in bitter amusement, but years of training in social appropriateness have me merely lifting my eyebrows. “I hope you told her that was absurd.”

Mom’s smile slips. “It’s not absurd. It’s admirable, what you’re doing. Moving to the middle of nowhere to help out one of our injured veterans?”

“Except it’s not the middle of nowhere, is it? It’s a one-hour plane ride, thanks to your and Dad’s interference.”

Mom doesn’t bother to look guilty. “Olivia, honey. You wouldn’t have lasted a day in El Salvador or wherever it was you were going to go build houses. There are plenty of people right here at home that need help. And we’re so proud of you for doing this.”

I give her a look. “Uh-huh. Is that why you guys didn’t speak to me for a week when I first told you about it?”

“We were in shock,” Mom says, unruffled. “Your father and I had no idea you weren’t happy in business school, and of course we’d always envisioned you taking over the company . . .”

It’s times like these that I wish my parents were really old money instead of second-generation money. Each of my friends is richer than the next, but most of their families’ wealth goes back to some 1800s railroad or some industry whose income is pretty much self-generating by now. Not in my case.

My grandfather had the whole American-dream syndrome going on and changed his midwestern middle-class destiny, building a highly respected advertising firm instead. Dad’s only built on his father’s success, and it’s fully expected to remain a family affair.

And I’m an only child. No pressure.

“I might still take over the company, Mom. I just need to get away from all this, you know? The only time I leave Manhattan is to go to the Hamptons in the summer or Saint-Tropez in January. I mean, you’ve always said you don’t want me to be one of those girls—”

Mom shakes her head to interrupt me. “I know. Believe me, as much as I play the New York society game, I do want you to know that there’s a big world out there, Olivia. But are you sure you don’t want to stay a little closer to home? There’s a facility out in Queens, and—”

“I’m already committed, Mom,” I say gently. “Mr. Langdon’s already sent a check to cover my travel expenses and I’m expected next Friday.”