She’s sent me a text with no words, just an image: the Swiss flag. Waving the flag of Switzerland means one of us is either asking for a judgment-free zone or offering to provide one. When that happens, the other one comes running.

There have been a few noteworthy flag-waving sessions. There was the time my mom ordered a large pizza for dinner and ended up eating it all thanks to an awful case of PMS. I came home and there was an actual mini flag waving on a hook by the front door. I walked in the house knowing that she would need me not to judge what she had done. And I didn’t; however, I did limit her carb intake for the rest of that week.

I also waved the flag once when I thought it was a good idea to wax my eyebrows. I ended up looking like Whoopi. There wasn’t a single eyebrow hair left. My mom adhered to the rules and didn’t judge me. She did, however, pop out of random places in the house, with her index and middle fingers pointed at me, saying, “Till you do right by me . . .” I tried to be mad about it, but she does a great Ms. Celie impression, and I ended up laughing every single time. I text her back and accept her offer, and moments later, she’s knocking on my door.

“Come in.”

She enters and sits down next to me on the bed. “Okay, tell me about the kiss,” she says in a calm and loving tone.

“Really?”

“This boy has to be special if you’re going this hard for him. So I’m willing to keep an open mind—but not about the lying. You lie to me again and you’ll be grounded for so long, we’ll get nursing home brochures with your name on them. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Now, I want to know everything. Was it bad, just okay, or amazing? Did you see it coming? Were you nervous? What happened right before? I want details.”

“No judgment?”

“No . . . but we have to be on the same page about the lying. I mean it. No more lying. We have a deal?”

I smile. “Deal.”

“Okay, tell me everything before I have to go back to my office and be a grownup.”

I take her through last night, and she hangs on my every word. I make sure to tell her how sorry Devonte was and how we both needed a do-over. She admits that maybe, just maybe, he’s not a bad guy.

The conversation goes even better than I could have hoped for. I know she’s still pissed that I lied, and she’s right to be. But we’re friends again. I’ve missed her. A thought enters my mind, but before I can spit it out, I want to make sure of one thing.