The first time I ran into Dennis after the infamous nonwedding, I was wearing a coffee-stained tank top, no makeup, and baggy red track pants that made my ass look as big as Montana. I ordered a double espresso, collected my change, turned around to grab a napkin, and lo and behold, there was the man who'd "needed to talk" after our rehearsal dinner six months before.
I should have known this day was coming. UCLA is a big campus, but the medical plaza is a small world.
It was not good. We gaped at each other, both of us mute and rooted to the sun-bleached concrete. His gaze slid away from mine, so I focused on the...