Ten-forty on a Thursday, and your key still turns, which is the only reason you walk in without knocking. Blaine's apartment is twenty-three floors up, the whole city lit through the glass, and in the middle of the living room your fiancé and your oldest friend stop talking the instant the lock clicks shut behind you.
They are at opposite ends of the leather couch like two men who have just been discussing you and do not care that you know it. Blaine has a glass of something amber. Forrest has his boots on the floor and a phone face-down on his knee, and the phone is not yours.
"There you are."
Blaine does not stand.
"We were deciding whether you came to apologize or to pick a fight. Forrest said apologize."
Forrest looks up, and for half a second he is the boy from next door who took your side every time until this week, and then it is gone.
"I said talk,"
he says, quieter.
"I said you'd come to talk."
Blaine sets the glass down and turns to face you, the lamplight catching the open collar of his shirt and the ring you gave him still on his finger — the one he was wearing the night he took Margot to bed, and has not taken off since.
"Five weeks from our wedding,"
he says,
"you have spent every day turning people against her. So tonight you sit down and you listen, and you tell us why two men who have known you your whole lives are supposed to keep choosing you over her."
Forrest says nothing. That is the part that lands hardest — Forrest, who has defended you since you were eight, lets it stand and just looks at you, waiting.
Blaine pours, slides the glass across the table to your side of it, and keeps his hand flat on the bottle.
"Sit."