Her meekness returns me to the discussion—and yes, I did think her a traitor at first. Now that things have calmed down and I’ve put Lina’s face to Chrissie’s heartache, I see her side of the Bay Bluff issue. She regrets not being forthright seven years ago. I know that. She certainly regrets the way things played out this week. Can I seriously hold a grudge? We’re all flawed, aren’t we—all brilliant in hindsight.

We love the things we love for what they are, Robert Frost wrote, and I do love Chrissie Perez. Hell, at some subconscious level I must be accepting her for what she is, if here I am, rushing to call her when I need a friend.

She adds a mournful, “I really wanted us to be sisters.”

I have to smile at that. Everything she said about clicking with me is mutual. Maybe there’s a Bay Bluff gene swimming in our blood? “It would have been nice.”

The line is silent for a spell, but it’s a comfortable break.

Then comes a quiet, “Do you know for sure we’re not?” It’s her last ditch effort to make it so.

I’m forty minutes from Bay Bluff, approaching Exit 82 and Waterford, and, just like that, I’m close enough to Chrissie again to say, “I do. It’s Paul.”

She gasps—and, just like that, is as indignant as my BFF Chrissie could be when she feels I’d been wronged. “Where’s he been?”

I make a sympathetic sound, half laugh, half grunt. “Same place you were, believing silence was the best way to go.”

“Ouch,” she whispers.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You did, and you’re right. But out of the goodness of our hearts. By the way, I don’t remember him from Bay Bluff.”

“He’ll visit in New York. You’ll meet him.” Forgiveness is easy once it’s done. Of all the sins of omission I’ve learned of this week, Chrissie’s is the simplest and most innocent. It feels so good to connect with her again. Besides, I want to know what she thinks of Paul.

“And Jack?” she asks. “Who adores you, by the way.”

Jack. Who wanted me to stay. Who begged me to stay but whom I just left. Whose face I see reflected in each exit sign I pass. Whose name alone twists at my heart.

Trying to make light of it, I tease, “And you saw this in, what, ten seconds?”

“Ten minutes, and he was looking at you like you hung the moon.”

“That’s being dramatic. But I left him. Again. He may be hurt enough to get over me.”

“Is that what you want?”