I follow her back in. When I walk in Jeannie quickly turns from the table to stride into the living room, a plate in one hand and a glass in the other.

“Oh.” Rosie halts in midstep, her back straight and her shoulder blades kissing each other. “I almost bumped into you.” She lifts her chin, but her tone trembles slightly.

Jeannie’s face is flushed, her brows lifted. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?” She clenches her fingers around the stem of her glass, which is decorated with one of the charms. Her fingers are white with the exertion and I wonder if she’ll snap the glass. “Are you aware of anyone else? Ever?” she hisses.

“Sorry.” Now Rosie’s tone is more belligerent than repentant. Sharp. And she narrows her eyes slightly. “Sorry for everything. Sorry for breathing.” She’s had enough of being Jeannie’s scapegoat.

I snap my eyes shut and press my lips at the argument. Girlfriends fight. Jealousies and hurt feelings, concern about being left out or cast aside for a closer friend, evolve over time. They get resolved. Rosie and Jeannie had been so close, best friends. The three of them—Rosie and Jeannie and Sue—were the three musketeers. Whether out of guilt or awkwardness, Sue resigned from the club this year, leaving space for Sissy. I was relieved. I couldn’t imagine the three of them in the same room. This is hard enough.

Now they stand, Jeannie holding a plate crammed with veggies and hummus, pita chips and barbecued chicken. The wine shakes in its glass.

Rosie holds her upright posture, her back ramrod straight, her eyes slits. “So. I don’t see you running to tell your mom. See. You’re just like me. You’re making the same decision I did and blaming me for it.”

Rosie is right.

Jeannie glares. She lifts her chin up. “I,” she barks, “didn’t make this fucking mess.” Jeannie tilts the plate. The food slides down to the edge.

I step toward her.

Charlene appears behind her. She, too, has watched this scene unfold. “Jeannie?” she says softly. “Jeannie?” She touches the cocked arm.

Jeannie turns.

Charlene’s eyes are very still and dark, deep lines etched from her nostrils to the corners of her lips. Her sorrow dissolves Jeannie’s anger for the moment. The death of Charlene’s son trumps Jeannie’s angst. Charlene motions with her head to a corner. “I haven’t had a chance to talk with you all night,” she says, as though nothing unusual is happening while placing her hand on Jeannie’s shoulder, softly warm but firmly guiding her from Rosie. They turn their backs on the rest of us and huddle in conversation.

Rosie’s face whitens except for two perfectly round circles on her cheeks that flush red.