But how could I immerse myself even more deeply in this tragedy? It was like running into freeway traffic, hurling myself onto the tracks in front of an oncoming train. How the hell could the end justify the means here? And what exactly was Page’s endgame?

When I finally put on a sweatshirt and roll out of bed it’s past noon, and through the wall of my bedroom I can hear muffled voices from the kitchen, the smells I woke to waning but still present in the apartment. Quinn must have someone over. Did a date spend the night? I pull on a pair of soft cotton shorts under my sweatshirt, just in case there’s a stranger in the house, and open my door softly, walking down the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen and living room.

Quinn is sitting there, at the drop leaf table we extend to accommodate guests, but not with a stranger. It’s Sam, Quinn’s on and off again partner. I guess they’re on again. Sam was one of the friends whom I’d texted, asking for help, hoping for some kind of lifeline when my world was imploding, but they’d barely responded.

Quinn and Sam are midconversation, sipping mimosas, the light streaming beatifically on the table, pink tulips in a blue vase the centerpiece of the drop leaf. They’re both in tasteful sweats, Sam’s shirt cropped, Quinn’s hoodie flatteringly framing his face. Their dishes seem scraped clean, only a few specks of syrup left clinging to the pastel-colored plates Quinn insisted on buying. I feel like I’m walking in on something, third-wheeling where I’m not wanted.

Sam glances at me over their drink, smiles at me, raises their hand in a small wave. “Quinn thought you’d be locked in there for the rest of the day. But you have emerged! Come, sit. Have a drink.” Why is everyone suddenly asking me to drink with them, I wonder? And before I can protest, Sam is pouring far too much prosecco into a glass, topping it off with a drop of overpriced fresh-squeezed orange juice. I take an extra chair, pull it over and sit with both of them, sliding my legs underneath my butt.

“There are extra eggs and stuff if you want to grab anything,” Quinn says but I stay put for a moment. I’d barely socialized for a year and having two back-to-back engagements was proving to be too taxing.

“You look good, Vera,” Sam says, leaning in to take stock of my morning breath, smeared eyeliner and rat’s-nest hair, barely combed before drunkenly passing out last night.