Madeline dropped her head into her hands, an overly dramatic gesture no one would see. Her head still buzzed a little from the good coffee at Troy’s. And she was hungry. She stood up from the chair and trudged out to the tiny kitchen, where she pulled open the freezer door. Slim pickings. A package of hot dogs and two frozen burritos. She wished like hell she had some ice cream, wanted to see some materialize right there out of the mist in the freezer.

She slammed the door.

Madeline knew who she wanted to talk to. There was only one person in town, one person in her life, she trusted enough to share a real secret with.

Unfortunately, that person likely hated her. And would never speak to her again.

“How the fuck did everything get so fucked up?” She knew she was frustrated when she was using “fuck” as more than one part of speech.

She took out her phone. No texts, no nothing from Sophia since the night almost two weeks ago when she had come to her apartment and asked about her husband. And Madeline told the truth. And Sophia stormed out.

She thought about everything else Sophia had done for her—listened, gave advice, acted like the big sister Madeline had never had. Would Sophia ever get over it?

Did Madeline have anything to lose by asking?

She spent fifteen minutes composing the text. She spent as much time on that as she did on a page of one of her short stories. And despite all the time she spent, the message ended up being short and direct.

I’m so sorry about what happened. But I’d love to talk. Have a problem.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

Madeline gave up pretty quickly. Sophia was done with her, and the response would never come. Madeline went to the freezer and took out one of the burritos, ripped off the wrapper, and tossed it in the microwave.

“If my life is going in the crapper, my health might as well go along with it.”

She pushed the start button as her phone dinged.

She checked Sophia’s message. It was also very short. But it said so much:

U okay?

Madeline hated to admit when things were wrong. She hated to admit she couldn’t handle things. She hated to need anyone for anything. That was why she was working her way through school. That was why she had signed the student loan papers herself.

It wasn’t her way to say she needed help.

But with Sophia . . . it felt different. It felt okay to say it.

So she did:

No. I’m not.

Are U home?

All night.

Five minutes later:

I’ll be there in fifteen.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

It was awkward.