Laney's birthday was in August. The first week of August, exactly one year and three days after mine. She had planned a dinner at the same restaurant where I had held mine. It was, I believed, not an accident. She had invited forty people. Many of the same forty people. Including Brandon. Including Marlene. Not including Caleb — Caleb was not on her friend list. Laney had asked me, four weeks before the birthday, if I would give a toast. She said, "After the one you endured last year, I'm going

to let you get revenge." She laughed. I laughed. I said I would be honored. I spent three weeks writing the toast. Four drafts. I timed it in my bathroom mirror. I rehearsed it in my car. I made sure every single beat of the six minutes was exactly where I wanted it. And on the night of the birthday, I wore a navy-blue dress I had bought specifically for the occasion, I sat at the table I had been assigned, and I waited for Laney to tap her champagne flute with a butter knife and introduce me.