Andie was my very close friend, certainly. Ever since first grade, Andie, Lexy, Isabel, and I had been an inseparable pack of four.

But my best friend—that had always been Mom. Ever since I was really little, when she’d come tuck me in at night, she’d loop her pinkie through mine and whisper, Best friends.

As I got older and more independent, Mom said it was normal if I stopped wanting her to be my best friend for a while, though I would always be hers. But I never did. And more nights than not, she’d still loop my pinkie and whisper, Best friends, in my ear, the familiar smell of her face cream comforting me toward sleep.

But that afternoon when Andie marched into my room and got me out of bed, I felt it—the unalterable truth that Mom was gone and not coming back. In that moment, something in my friendship with Andie intensified, pulling the two of us from our foursome toward a connection more profound. And though we never told Lexy and Isabel, they knew. Everyone knew.

Andie’s empathy had been my saving grace, and the thing that allowed me to begin to heal. I confided in her about what else had been going on since Mom died, the other thing that had me glued to my bed in sheer terror—the doors. The closed doors that would no longer open without my special knock: one two three four five six seven eight; eight seven six five four three two one. One count up to eight, one count down from eight.

“I don’t know why it’s happening,” I’d said to Andie. “All I know is that eight—”

“Was your mom’s lucky number.”

“I haven’t told anyone but you.”

“It’s okay.” Andie had mime-zipped her lips. “We’ll figure it out together.”

Together.

Andie is already seated when I brush through the door into Rosemary’s. The aesthetic of this place always soothes me—I take in the high, wood-beamed ceilings and enormous glass windows, and a calmness settles behind my sternum.

I bypass the hostess and head toward Andie. Even though we’re not exactly Thelma and Louise these days, the corners of my lips flip instinctively at the sight of my best friend. The girl in front of me has come a long way since preteen Andie, but she still has the same squinty smile and hazel eyes and narrow frame that magically survived puberty—a body I’ve simultaneously admired and envied. Clothes look amazing on her, the way they do on women with barely any chest. She wears an army-green jumper that screams Brooklyn thrift store, and her long chestnut hair is loose around her face. In a cropped white turtleneck and light eye makeup, she looks annoyingly good. Hot. Andie has always been hot.

The smell of her perfume intensifies as I move toward our table—the white floral and tuberose scents of her signature Fracas—and her familiar grin broadens. But then she sees it. I know because the expression in her eyes hardens, her smile quickly drops. I don’t know when Andie and I started instinctively checking ring fingers, only that we did.

I slide into my seat.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Andie is staring at me as if I have a black eye, her lips parted.

“What’s wrong?” I cock my head, the grin breaking through my teeth.

Andie grabs my left hand. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

I exhale. “What do you think?”

Andie’s jaw drops lower as she clutches my fingers. “When did this happen, Skye?”

“Sunday.”

“Oh my God.”

“What do you think, Andie?”

“I mean…” She draws her gaze from me to the ring. Then back up to me, her eyes bugging out of her head. “I mean, I think it’s insane. You met Burke in September.”

I crane my neck to look for the waitress. I wasn’t not expecting this, but I need a drink to deal with it.

“It’s not that insane, Andie. People fall in love and get engaged. Sometimes it happens quickly.”

“No. No, no. Quickly is a year and a half. This is five months.”

“Six months.” I know I sound defensive.

“Six months, whatever. You can’t know someone in six months. You can’t make a decision to spend the rest of your life with someone you’ve known for six months. It’s not safe.” Andie runs her fingers through the ends of her hair, searching for split ends the way she does when she’s getting worked up.

“Safe? Don’t be ridiculous, Andie.”

“You’ve never even met his family, Skye. You can’t know someone if you haven’t met their family.”

“He doesn’t have family, Andie. We’ve been over this.”

“He has those relatives in Phoenix!”

“Right, and he’s not that close with them. But I know he’s planning on inviting them to the wedding, if that makes you feel better.”

“I think it’s too fast.” Andie quits ripping apart her hair and interlaces her hands across the table.

We’re saved by the waitress, a waify girl with a strawberry-blond ponytail and lots of dark eyeliner.

“Two negronis, please,” I tell her. That’s our dinner drink. Aperol spritzes at brunch and happy hour.

“You got it.” The waitress nods without a smile, and I watch her gaze skitter down toward my left ring finger. Or maybe I imagine it. Maybe she was just checking our waters. Still, I clench and unclench my fist, gazing lovingly at the rock. I don’t care if I’m acting like the girls I used to resent; I deserve this. I feel Andie staring at me, alarmed.

“Look, Andie.” I meet her eyes and keep my voice firm, ready with my rehearsed speech. “You don’t have to be so judgmental. We’re adults, and I’m supposed to be your best friend, and I’m finally happy. You can think it’s crazy that Burke and I are moving this fast—I know, objectively, it does seem fast. But I hope you can find a way to be happy for me and respect my choice, because it’s not one I’ve made lightly.”

Andie’s picking her split ends again, and I can feel the inside of her brain swirling, ruminating.

“Okay,” she says finally. “I’m happy for you, Skye, I really am. I just want to make sure you’re really certain about this. Because people rush into these things and … I just want you to be careful. It’s a huge commitment. It’s the rest of your life.”

The waitress drops our cocktails and I lunge for mine.

“I know it is.” I swallow.

“And just because Burke is the first guy, who, you know…”

“Who what, Andie?”

“Who … who’s stuck around. You know what I mean.”

Our gazes lock, and sometimes I loathe the flip side of having a friend who knows everything about you.

“I get that you’re worried there might not be others. But I promise you, Burke is not the only—”

“So, you think I’m settling?” I feel heat creeping up my chest, toward my neck. “For Burke?” Anger seizes me. “Are you seriously unable to admit that the guy I’m with is a total catch? Is that so impossible for you? ’Cause if you stopped searching for every possible flaw in him, you’d realize that he’s smart and handsome and mature, Andie. Burke is a fucking grown-up.” I watch my words land with Andie, hoping the last part stings. I want her to know that I think Spencer—with his custom necktie business and worn-out Timberlands—is the opposite of a grown-up.

“I don’t want to do this.” Andie averts her eyes. “Not here.”

“You think I do?”

“I didn’t say Burke wasn’t a catch, Skye,” she says coolly.

“Then what’s the problem?” I drum my fingers on the polished wood table, and I wish so badly that I didn’t care what Andie thought. “You think he’s too old for me?”

Andie sighs. “I mean, maybe. Then again, we’re getting old, aren’t we?” One corner of her mouth curls.

“Pushing thirty.”

Andie and I were born two weeks apart in July. We used to have joint birthday parties every summer.

“I can’t believe that.” Andie twists the stem of her glass. “Then again, age is just a number. And our generation isn’t in a rush. It’s not like it was for our parents, where everyone was married with kids by twenty-five.”

“True.”

“Look, I’m sorry, S.” Andie exhales, and her face looks genuinely pained. “I’m sorry I’m not being one hundred percent receptive to this. I’m just … it’s a lot to process. But I want to hear about the engagement. Tell me exactly how it happened.”

I let the story spill from me, grateful to finally be telling Andie every detail of the day that’s left me floating on a cloud. I let myself gush, and it feels so incredibly good to be happy like this, to be normal like this, to talk to my oldest friend about the man who wants to spend the rest of his life with me. I can’t help but intermittently glance down at my ring, checking to make sure it’s still there, that this isn’t all a dream.

Andie sees me, and I know she knows what I’m feeling, in the perceptive way she can, because she reaches over and squeezes my hand.

“You deserve this,” she whispers.

The waitress reappears and asks if we’re ready to order.

Andie orders the healthiest salad on the menu, and I opt for the carbonara and another negroni. Fuck it. I have someone who loves me completely.