That night, back at home, I began sorting through the memories Phil and I had shared over the years.
I was deleting photos from my computer when I noticed it: Phil's WhatsApp account was still logged in on my machine.
Almost without thinking, I clicked in.
The moment I came online, messages were streaming through a small group chat, updating nonstop.
The latest one had been sent by Phil himself.
"Where are we meeting tonight? Last night wasn't enough—let's drink till we drop!"
Messages kept popping up one after another.
"No way am I drinking with you again. Did you see Irene's face yesterday? I thought she was going to eat us alive. My heart can't take it."
"For real though, Phil—Claire's so much better. That fiancée of yours doesn't even come close."
"I can't stand Irene. That whole pampered-princess act. It honestly makes me sick."
…
The messages kept coming, all variations of the same filth—that I couldn't compare to Claire, that I never could.
These friends of Phil's, every single one of them angling to ride his coattails into a connection with Gilbert Group.
To my face, it was always "sister-in-law" this, "sister-in-law" that. Behind my back, last night, this was who they really were.