Polly looked at her quizzically. “That was storming? Dude, if you’ll excuse me for sounding all Californian for a minute, you need to work on releasing your anger, because that was the politest temper tantrum I’ve ever seen.” She put her hand to her heart. “Honestly, after you left, we felt like crap because you’d been so self-controlled and hadn’t ripped everyone a new one for commenting on you like a character in a telenovela.”

Laura looked down at her bedspread and let a tear fall onto her computer keyboard. Quickly she blotted it with her sleeve, but it slipped between the K and the L. L for loser.

“I’m sorry, Polly.”

Her friend leaned forward and poked her very hard on the thigh, three times. “Quit it. I don’t completely understand what Nick was so peevish about, but you’ll be pleased to hear he left shortly after you delivered your wonderful exit.” She hugged herself. “Oh my god, when you called Madeleine a bitch, I thought I might die and go to heaven. It was amazing.”

Laura started to smile. “Really?”

Polly nodded. “She was deeply offended, and when Asher didn’t immediately leap to her defense, she stormed off herself.” She made a face. “She has no issue accessing her anger, I’ll give her that.”

“What else happened?” Laura felt better, but she was still worried.

Polly shrugged. “We cleaned the kitchen and had dessert.”

“No one said anything about me?”

Polly hesitated for a second, and Laura realized Polly was trying to decide whether to be honest or not.

“Please tell me,” Laura said.

“Before he left, Nick elaborated on your . . . problem.”

Laura blushed. “The panicking thing?”

Polly nodded. “Yes, he actually risked life and limb by calling it scaredy-cat syndrome, and was listing the various freak-outs you’d had, when Bob stood up and told him he could either leave or be thrown out, and he had ten seconds to decide.”

“Really?” squeaked Laura. She picked up her quilt and hugged it, feeling confused.

Polly nodded. “Really. Nick was telling us how fragile you were, how a year ago you’d ended up in the emergency room, how you couldn’t be in a car, or drive anywhere, or even be on the street, really.”

Laura remembered the emergency room. She’d crumpled in a doorway on Eighty-Sixth and Broadway, overcome by anxiety, and someone had called 911. The EMTs had taken her in, and a very pleasant psychiatrist had talked to her for a bit. But she’d insisted she was fine, and as the guy in the next cubicle insisted his elbows had been replaced with exact replicas, the busy psychiatrist let her go without much questioning.

Laura hung her head. “It’s true.”