He moves past me toward the parking lot, then stops and turns.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

“Yeah, I just got a weird text, that’s all,” I say.

I don’t tell him it’s from Jasmine. From what she’s told me, he and Dimitri are spending more and more time together. I don’t want whatever I say to Ryan to get back to Dimitri.

“I hope she’s okay,” he says.

He looks concerned, but he doesn’t move from his spot on the pavement. If our relationship had unfolded differently, I’d be able to tell him everything. He’d reassure me things would be okay. But now, ten feet sits between us, and it feels like ten miles. I know that neither one of us will close the distance.

“Yeah, it’ll all be fine,” I say.

I cross my arms and lean back against the door frame. He seems to get the message—I have nothing more to say to him. He waves good night and gets into his car. I wait until he drives away to text Jasmine back.

I’ll come over now, I tell her.

I’m nervous pulling into Jasmine’s driveway. We’ve seen each other plenty of times since Nationals, but always in public—never at home. Together, we’ve split oysters and sauvignon blanc at a French bistro, shared a big veggie pizza at Stonehearth in the town center, and even met up on a Saturday afternoon to get manicures together (I rarely indulge in them, but she promised it would be fun, and I have to admit, it was pretty nice). There’s an unspoken agreement: we don’t hang out around Dimitri. I don’t know if he’ll be home tonight.

I heave the gold knocker against the door and hear the pitter-patter of bare feet inside. Jasmine opens the door looking unlike I’ve seen her in years. Her face is free of makeup, so completely so that I can see the dark circles beneath her eyes and a blemish forming on her cheek. Her hair is unceremoniously pulled back into a low ponytail, and she’s wearing saggy gray sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. She looks both embarrassed and relieved to see me.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says, pulling me into a hug. “Thank you so much.”

I step cautiously inside. The house is quiet. “Of course.”

“He’s not home,” she says, as if she can read my thoughts. “It’s poker night. He’ll be out for hours.”

“Oh, okay.”

I mean Oh, good, but I didn’t want to sound too enthusiastic.