But then her phone dinged again.

Do you have time to talk? I was hoping we could.

Everything changed then. It sounded like Sophia needed something—a helping hand. A sympathetic ear. And she specifically directed her request at Madeline. Not one of her many other friends. Not to her husband. To Madeline. She sounded like she wanted to talk to Madeline.

And how could Madeline ignore her if she needed her? Not when Sophia always listened to her troubles.

Madeline tried to keep breathing, tried to reach back and remember things she’d learned in yoga next to Sophia. What a week to skip the class that calms me down.

Okay, she thought. Okay. She wrote back:

Hey! Studying. But I’ve got a few minutes if you need to talk.

The response came immediately: Great. Where do u live?

Madeline sent the address—up the rickety stairs at the back, try not to fall down—and then paced around the apartment, hands on hips. Breathing, breathing.

She couldn’t know. How would she? And if she knew, that meant Zach had told her. And if Zach had told her, then why would Sophia need to talk to Madeline at all? Her problem wasn’t with Madeline. Her problem was with Zach. Her husband. The pig.

But what if Zach had shifted the blame to Madeline? Told a tale about Madeline being the aggressor? And Sophia was coming over to tell her to stay the fuck away from her man?

Her mom had received those visits and calls before. Angry women pounding on the door or confronting her in the grocery store parking lot. Her mother yelling back until a vein shaped like a Y popped out on her forehead.

She should just leave. Just get out of the apartment and avoid Sophia. Wasn’t that the best way to deal with it?

No, she told herself. Running isn’t always the way.

“Shit,” Madeline said. “Shit, shit, shit. Why is this my life?”

Three minutes after Madeline sent the address, Sophia knocked on the door. Madeline knew she was coming but jumped anyway, like a scared little kid. And she felt like one compared to Sophia. She felt like she’d been caught doing something and was about to get punished.

But, she reminded herself, she hadn’t done anything. Zach had.

Sophia smiled when Madeline opened the door, the light from the one bulb above the door casting her face in a pale glow. But her smile lacked the wattage it usually had. Madeline hated clichés, desperately fought to keep them out of her own writing, but she’d always thought it about Sophia—that she had a smile that could light up a room. . . .

The blond hair, the big eyes. The incandescent smile. Sophia made Madeline feel warm every time she saw her. But the glow was dimmed that night, like something had gone out of it.