There was Meghan, Angela, Cortney, Jennifer, Ashleigh, Katie, Nicole, Amy. Blonde and brunette and blonde again and again. For six months, a year, or three years, overlapping and constant, simultaneous engagements, concurrent relationships. One after the other along with one and the other. Because I could. I lead and lead and love and live and then, the icing on the cake, the grand finale: then the end. Car wreck, drunk driver, mugging gone awry, defending an innocent, a fire, spectacular death. Unlikely? All the better if she believes. And the fun part: watching them fall apart. Lindsey still sees a psychiatrist, Natalie tried to kill herself twice. Vanessa did, still wearing cubix zirconium and gold on her left hand, the veil and gown waiting for her day in the closet. Helena won’t leave her house. Yasmine won’t date. Christine takes eight kinds of meds. Ann doesn’t talk anymore. At all. They’re all my toys. I keep them in my scrapbook like boxed toys, that I take out to break and laugh and put away again.