At first, I give in to the disappointment—the realization that I haven’t woken up to find that yesterday was all a terrible dream. I burrow deep into my covers, briefly indulging in my desire to hide away from all the ways last night had gotten unaccountably worse—still no word from Reid, but lots of words from other people. Reporters who’d flooded my voice mail and my inbox. Clients who’d done the same, apparently scanning their planners for hidden messages, finding things I’d certainly never hidden. One had been convinced that I’d written He’s cheating among the letters in her June spread. The truth is, I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone. Another thought I’d hidden Botox, and wanted to know whether I was making an accusation or a suggestion. “That’s a good one,” Sibby had said, as she’d scrolled through the phone she’d commandeered from me shortly after her arrival. But I’d never hidden that word, either.

Still, I have a lot to answer for. And also, I want a lot of answers.

Slowly, I uncurl my body from the ball I’ve tucked myself into, tossing off the covers. I know I can’t hide from this forever, and anyway, Sibby being here last night let me do a lot of hiding already.

My body feels achy with fatigue as I pull on a light wrap over my pajamas, and my eyes are swollen and stuck-together-feeling. I don’t know when I finally fell asleep last night, but I do know that I’d been crying—steady streams of tears as Sibby and I had lain next to each other in the dark, the saddest version of our old sleepovers. In a cracking, barely whispered voice, I’d told her everything. About Reid and Avery and the program, about Reid and me and the walks. Even about that around my heart, and what it truly stands for.

She’d held my hand and listened. When I’d finished, she’d said, her voice cracking, too, “I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.” And then she squeezed my hand tight and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, Sib,” I croak to her when I come out from my quick stop in the bathroom. I shuffle over to the couch and slump onto it. As progress goes, it’s minimal, but it’s better than staying in bed, at least.

She’s wearing her clothes from yesterday, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, and as soon as I’m settled she comes over, holding out a glass to me.

“Water before you’re allowed to have coffee,” she says, and I’m guessing this is the voice Sibby uses on her young charges. I can’t say I mind it at the moment. I take the glass and drink deeply, mostly because I want that coffee so bad.