The question catches me off guard. “We don’t really need to discipline her.”

“Sure,” she says skeptically.

“No, really. It’s actually been really interesting, figuring out a coaching style that’s different from the one we grew up with,” I continue. “You remember, Dimitri always said he was hard on us because that would be best for us. But with Hallie, I don’t know, she just works hard.”

Jasmine doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she sips quietly from her wineglass. I regret speaking so candidly about Dimitri in front of her.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to imply anything about the way he coached. I know, obviously, things are different now that he’s your… husband.”

The word still leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

“No, it’s all right, you don’t need to apologize,” she says, twisting her diamond engagement ring and staring down at her salad, like she’s trying to find the right words. “I know he… I mean, he was…” She trails off and sighs heavily.

“Is he still like that? I mean, when it’s just you two?” I ask tentatively.

I know I’m prying, but it occurs to me that Jasmine might not have anyone else she can talk to like this. We used to confide in each other all the time—more often than not about the man who’s now her husband—but I wouldn’t be surprised if she stays tight-lipped about what he’s really like among her new set of friends.

My salad arrives. Jasmine pauses, politely watching the busboy set it down in front of me. She looks grateful for the opportunity to collect her thoughts before she speaks.

“He’s a good man,” she finally says in an even voice. “He provides a beautiful life for us, and he is so respected in the community, and he makes me happy.”

I know what Jasmine looks like when she’s not being totally honest. I’ve seen it before, back when we were kids. It was easy to lie about doing two sets of reps of crunches instead of three, or to pretend we didn’t eat the extra whipped cream on our chai lattes at Lolly’s. I’m not married, so I can’t judge firsthand what’s normal and what’s not in her relationship. But she doesn’t sound like a woman in love. She sounds like a defense attorney.

“Right,” I say.

Discomfort clings to me like an itchy, too-small sweater. There’s more I want to know.

“But what’s it… like? Being married to him? I mean, I can’t imagine,” I say.

It sounds like I’m openly gawking, and I guess I am. I’ve spent years wondering what their relationship could possibly be like, and after getting a glimpse of it at their party, my curiosity has only intensified.

She gestures to the bartender for another glass of wine.