How could I say no? After all, Audrey was right. There was more than enough time to finish the memo over the next three days. I could spare an hour or two for my best friend in her time of need. She would do the same for me.

Would she? a nasty little voice inside my head asked. Isn’t it always about what Audrey wants?

Shut up, I told myself. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

IN LAW SCHOOL, a so-called self-defense expert had given a presentation to the student body. He had been a short, muscle-bound man wearing a gray sweat suit, and he had demonstrated several quick motions before unloading a case of pepper spray to sell us. I still had the canister rattling around the bottom of my purse; I had no idea if it had an expiration date.

The class Audrey had selected, however, was nothing like that uninspiring display. It was much more of a workout class, led by a pair of energetic instructors who introduced themselves as “Samantha and Samuel … but you can call us Sam!” When they turned on a soundtrack of electronic music, I thought I’d made a grave mistake in coming, but soon I was enjoying myself. Typical exercise classes made me feel shy, but because the focus of this class was self-defense rather than vanity, no one was looking at my body.

Which is not to say that vanity didn’t enter the equation. Audrey kept pressing her rose-gold iPhone into my hands and instructing me to record her, then pausing to ask if her facial expression had been right or if her arm had looked weird. If I hesitated for even a split second, she’d insist on redoing the whole thing. Sam and Sam seemed oblivious, but the other class participants were plainly annoyed. “I didn’t know there was a celebrity in our class,” one woman said in a loud, sarcastic voice. I shrank a little, embarrassed, but Audrey merely beamed in the woman’s direction.

Once things got moving, though, Audrey relaxed on the constant filming, and we had a good time.

“Amazing, right?” Audrey asked when class ended, not waiting for an answer before wrapping one of her damp arms around me and taking a selfie. The class had left me sweaty, spent, and euphoric, and I smiled widely, for once not remembering to be self-conscious.

“Amazing,” I agreed. “Thanks for insisting I come.”

“Remember that next time you try to weasel out of something because you have to work,” she said with a laugh, and kissed me on the cheek. “I always know what’s best for you.”

I HAD PLANNED to turn back to the memo, but, still high on endorphins, I let Audrey drag me back to her apartment for brunch. It was the first time I’d been over since she moved in, and I was surprised to see not much had changed. One corner of the living room held a trendy table and lamp, pieces I had seen posted on her Instagram account (I’d started checking the app in order to keep up with Audrey) and had assumed were indicative of the rest of her decor. The only other furniture in her living room was incredibly incongruous: one slouchy, bright pink beanbag chair; one small, cheap-looking desk cluttered with mail, makeup, and cords; and one folding chair. The rest of the space was filled with open boxes, the contents spilling out onto the floor.