She leads us through the kitchen, where she pours me a glass of rosé to match the one she’s already drinking, and then into the living room, where we settle onto the ivory-colored sectional beneath the wall of medals. She pulls her feet up under her. On the glass coffee table beside us, a fragrant candle burns brightly.

“I know we don’t really do this,” she says, gesturing at the couch between us. “Or at least, not for a long time.”

A decade ago, there was nothing unusual about us spending hours in each other’s bedrooms, sneaking snacks and talking about the movie stars we thought were cute. But that was before London, before she got married, before we grew apart and grew up.

“We can do this,” I say. “We’re friends.”

She gives a small smile at the word “friends” and sips her wine. “Yeah.”

“So…” I say, trying to prompt her.

I don’t want to push her, but I know she didn’t call me over here just to chitchat.

“I have news,” she announces.

“Okay,” I say gently.

I can’t help but race through the options: she’s not pregnant—she’s drinking wine—but maybe it’s something about Dimitri and Ryan, or her career, or worse, a health scare of some kind, or something terrible with her family.

She gives me a nervous look and takes a deep breath, as if she’s psyching herself up to say whatever it is out loud.

“I’m going to leave Dimitri,” she says.

Her voice is low and quiet, as if she can’t quite trust that we’re really alone.

“Oh my god, Jasmine,” I breathe. “Wow.”

She nods. “I know. I haven’t told him yet. I need to get my life in order first. But… I’ve decided.”

“How long have you been thinking about this?” I ask.

“Part of me has known for a long time that marrying him was the wrong decision,” she explains. “It felt right at the time, but I was swept up by him, and I was so young, and I wasn’t thinking straight. He had a way of intimidating me—more so back then—and when he said we should get married, I wasn’t brave enough to say no. But…” She hesitates, then admits, “Part of the decision came from talking to you.”

“Me?”

I clap a hand to my mouth. I never hid my contempt for him, but I never outright told her to leave him, either. Meddling in a marriage, encouraging a wife to leave her husband—it all feels too adult for me. I’m way in over my head.

“It started at Nationals,” she recalls. “At the bar, remember? Nobody has ever dared to tell me to my face that Dimitri is…” She stops short and scowls. “An emotionally abusive asshole. But you did. You know what he’s like, better than anybody.”