After I Do by Taylor Jenkins Reid

good woman. If the two of you decided this was a good idea, that’s because it’s a good idea. And good ideas are never a bad idea.”
    It’s quiet for a minute before we both start laughing.
    “OK, that last part didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but you know what I meant.”
    I look up at her, and she looks down at me. I always know what she means. We’ve always had a way of understanding each other. Maybe more to the point, we’ve always had a way of believing in each other. I need to be believed in right now.
    “I’m glad you’re here,” Rachel says to me. “Not under these circumstances, obviously. But I’m glad you’re here.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah, it’s nice to see you, just you.”
    “With no Ryan?”
    “Yeah,” she says. “I love Ryan, but I love you more. It will be nice to have a year of just you.”
    She’s better with words than she thinks she is, because for the first time, I can see something to look forward to this year. It will be nice to have a year of just me.
    • • •
    “So, delicate question, I guess,” Rachel says to me. We are at her kitchen table. She has made Cinnamon Toast Crunch–­encrusted French toast with fresh whipped cream. I want to take a picture, it looks so gorgeous and decadent. She puts the plate in front of me as she speaks, and I immediately stop listening to whatever she is saying. I know this will taste even better than it looks. Which is saying a lot. But this is Rachel’s forte. She makes Oreo pancakes. She makes red velvet crepes with cream cheese filling. She cannot make a casserole or an egg dish to save her life, but anything that requires a bag of sugar and heavy cream, and she’s your woman.
    “This looks incredible,” I say to her, grabbing my fork. I press the end of it against the corner of the bread and grind it against the plate until I’ve set my piece free. It tastes exactly like I imagined. It takes like everything is fine. “Oh, my God,” I say.
    “I know, right?” Rachel has absolutely no qualms about admitting that what she has made tastes great. She does it in a way that implies she had nothing to do with it. You can tell her that her pumpkin spice cake is the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted, and she will say something like, “Oh, tell me about it. It’s sinful,” and you get the impression that she is complimenting the recipe instead of herself.
    “Anyway,” I say, after I have finished chewing, “what is your delicate question?”
    “Well,” she says, licking the whipped cream off her fork. “Who gets . . .” She pauses and then sort of gives up. She doesn’t know how to say it.
    “Thumper,” I say, so that she doesn’t have to. “Who gets Thumper?”
    “Right, who gets Thumper?”
    I take a deep breath. “I get him for the first two months just so everything doesn’t change at once for him.” I feel stupid when I say this. Ryan and I act as if Thumper is a child, and it comes out in the smallest and most embarrassing ways. But Rachel doesn’t bat an eyelash.
    “And then Ryan gets him?”
    “Yeah, for two months after that. That brings us to January, and we will renegotiate.”
    “Got it.”
    “It sounds stupid, right?” I say. The truth is, I was eager to agree to the idea when Ryan came up with it. It meant that no matter what, we would see each other in two months, and that gave me a sense of security. It felt like training wheels on a bike.
    “No,” Rachel says, not even looking at me. She continues to eat her breakfast. “Not at all. Everyone has their own way of doing things.”
    “Well, what, then?” I ask.
    Rachel looks . . . I don’t know. There is something going on with her face. She seems to be holding something back. “What do you mean?” she asks.
    “What are you thinking that you’re not saying?”
    “I thought I was supposed to be supportive!” Rachel says, half laughing and completely defensive. “I can’t tell you every little thought in my head and