If you’re wondering what the hell I’m doing in this dumpy, drug-ridden town—yep, still dumpy and drug ridden as ever—that’s a fair question, and I’ll get to it. But first let me backtrack.

I’m engaged, Doc. I popped the question a couple of weeks ago, and it went as seamlessly as a man could hope.

Thanks to FoolzJewelz on Etsy (five-star rating, 897 glowing reviews), I ordered a stunning moissanite and synthetic-sapphire replica of Heather’s engagement ring for $625, tax and rush shipping included. All thanks to Maggie, who replied to my text with a close-up photo of the ring and a wink-face emoji.

After the proposal and subsequent celebratory brunch I planned with Skye’s father and stepmom, Skye and I wasted no time on beginning wedding planning. Lucky for me, Skye is fully on board with a fall ceremony. It turns out her parents were married in September, and that’s the time of year she’s always envisioned for her own nuptials. It’s a tight turnaround, yes, but we both agree that waiting until the following September feels unbearably long.

When Skye found out that September 21 was a Saturday, that sealed the deal.

“‘Do you remember … the twenty-first night of September?’” she’d started singing, squeezing her fist into a pretend microphone. “It’s perfect, Burke. That can be our wedding song.”

It is rather perfect, Dr. K, because I do like that song.

Skye wants to have the wedding on Nantucket at her grandparents’ estate, the same place her parents got hitched in the eighties. I still haven’t been to Nantucket, but Skye says we can go next weekend to check it out—her grandparents have a private plane they take to and from Nantucket and Westport that she can use at her disposal. This is the kind of girl I’m marrying, Dr. K. A girl with a private fucking jet. I’m telling you, she’s not going to miss a few million if I pull this off.

That’s still a big if, Dr. K. Plenty of issues are still at hand. Like this: The other day Skye started jotting down her list of bridesmaids, and it hit me like a sock punch in the stomach—I will have to have groomsmen. I will have to have guests.

It’s not that Skye is under the impression that I’m friendless; I’ve coerced my old roommate Ethan into grabbing drinks with us a couple of times, though I’m sure Ethan wonders why I’ve bothered to stay in touch. Skye and I have also gotten dinner with Todd. Todd’s own infidelity means that he knows how to help a guy out. But I haven’t told Todd about my master plan, and doing so is out of the question. He may be sleazy at heart, but he still has a reputation and a job to uphold, not to mention alimony payments. He isn’t looking to make himself an accessory to a felony.

Skye believes me when I tell her I don’t talk to my relatives in Phoenix as much as I used to. She believes me when I tell her that many of my close friends have left New York. She agrees that it’s natural to lose touch with people as you get older. She believes me when I say that she’s my best friend, that ever since we met, my other friendships have taken a backseat. She believes me because she feels the same. Most of the time it’s just the two of us “getting drunk off each other,” and that’s the way we like it.

But this doesn’t solve the issue of my groomsmen, Dr. K. I’ll ask Skye’s brother, yes, but that’s standard protocol and doesn’t exactly help my situation. Because unless you’re a serial killer, you have friends—a handful of people who give your life meaning, whom you call up on their birthdays and think of when that song comes on the radio and ask to be in your wedding when you get married. The real Burke Michaels has plenty of friends, Dr. K. He’s got Todd and the guys from PK Adamson. He’s got Pat Larson and the other dads who coached youth soccer. He’s got Fred Pike, Maggie’s best friend’s father, whom he used to hit balls with on the driving range most Saturdays.

But the other Burke Michaels does not have friends, and right now, I am him.

I hate this whole big two-hundred-person Nantucket wedding thing. If I had it my way, we’d lock it down at city hall in a single afternoon, then grab cheeseburgers, like Heather and I did all those years ago. But when I mentioned this idea to Skye—excluding the Heather part, obviously—she looked so horrified that I quickly pretended I was joking.

So I spent a few days mulling over my options, and that’s precisely how I wound up in this crappy motel room in Langs Valley. I’m not religious, Dr. K, but Grams was a crazy Catholic, and I remembered this passage from the Bible she had taped to the window above the kitchen sink: Remember the rock from which you were hewn—Isaiah 51.

I lived with my grandma, you know? My dad was in jail and my mom was gone out West and I lived in that house as a kid, and I read that passage every day when I was rinsing the dishes or whatever, and it’s always stuck with me. And now I know why.

I’d forgotten Langs Valley, Dr. K. It was easy to forget because no part of me wanted to remember, and Heather and I were always on the same page about that. But the thing is—and this was my lightbulb moment—to remember the rock from which you were hewn is to use your past to set yourself free.

I told Skye I was heading up north for a reunion weekend in the Adirondacks with some of my old buddies, guys I wanted to ask to be my groomsmen. The irony is, it wasn’t exactly a lie.

When I arrived in Langs Valley yesterday afternoon, I wasted no time looking up my old buddy Andy Raymond. Andy and I were co-captains of the varsity football team back in the day, before he developed a particularly bad crack habit and got replaced. I wasn’t surprised to find that he still lives in Langs Valley—too many people get stuck here—and once I got his address, I knocked right on his front door. I know enough about drugs to know what an addict looks like when I see one, and let me tell you, Dr. K, Andy fit the bill. So did his wife—a woman named Shelly from Albany with flaming-red hair and giant pupils.

Andy was shocked to see me, but he remembered who I was as though it were just yesterday we were leading group sprints around the track. For him, it might well have been yesterday. For me, that was another lifetime.

I clapped Andy on the back and got straight to the point, spelling it out plainly. I told him what I needed and what I was offering. He said he knew four or five other local guys around our age who were desperate for some cash, one being my old pal Scott Lynch. I had Andy round them up.

It felt a bit sad, how little it shocked me to see that Langs Valley had been swallowed up by the ever-worsening opioid crisis. This poor town never stood a chance.

But here’s the good thing about opioid addicts: compared to crackheads, they can almost pass for normal. I’d spent enough time high on rocks to know that it turns you into a twitchy, volatile creature if you’re not careful. On the contrary, opioid addicts often look like your average Jack and Jill, and they tend to be quite functional. Sure, they might seem a bit smiley and numbed out, but so do lots of people at weddings. As far as drug addicts go, this is a relatively clean and presentable bunch.

I knew right away that Andy, Scott, and their friends would work just fine. They’ll need to spruce themselves up a bit and commit to being on their A games for the wedding weekend, but my options are limited, and you’ve got to work with what you have, Dr. K.

So, in addition to Skye’s brother, there you have my groomsmen: Andy and Scott, my “childhood friends from growing up in Phoenix”; Dave and Brandon, my “closest buddies from NYU”; Wally, my “only male cousin.” They’ve each promised to bring their wives and act presentable and thoroughly believable in their roles for the weekend of September 21. Wally, who Andy assures me is the most articulate of the bunch, will serve as the best man, toast and all.

This arrangement comes at a cost. In addition to providing accommodations for all five men and their dates, I’ve promised them each $1,500 to see this thing through ($1,700 for Wally). They get half the money up front, and the rest after the wedding.

Andy was really into the whole thing and impressed with my plan in general; he said he genuinely understood the logic behind it, and that he would do anything to save his marriage with Shelly. It was nice to talk to someone about it, Dr. K, especially a guy like Andy from my side of the tracks, someone who knows where I’m coming from. Andy even offered to secure a couple of “older guests” to play my aunt and uncle from Phoenix. For a small fee, with a cut for himself. Life isn’t cheap, Dr. K. But you know that. It’s why you charge such a whopping hourly rate.

But I’m looking at this as an investment. Paying off the groomsmen and a couple of wedding guests is going to be chump change in relation to the final payout. And in the meantime, I just have to keep my eye on the prize.