My stout colleague soon joined me. “This is where we sat last time,” he said, slipping into the seat across from me. “I guess this is our booth.”

I managed not to roll my eyes.

“I know you said you weren’t hungry, but can I tempt you with a slice?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Meat-lovers and a Coke?” He tapped his head like this was some great feat of memory.

“Yep.”

While I waited, I checked Freya’s Instagram. She had a new post: a selfie of her and Jamie cuddled up on her white sofa. My stomach turned sour as I took in the image of the two women. Freya held the camera, looking natural and pretty and pleased with herself. Jamie was smiling, but I could see that she was self-conscious. The lighting was terrible, the perspective off. Freya and I were supposed to be creating a beautiful, professional-quality page, not posting crappy selfies. But the worst part was Freya’s comment.

So happy to have this one in my life. Her support means everything.

#bestfriends #backtogether #grateful

My face burned with betrayal. Freya had never posted a photo with me. She’d never thanked me or mentioned me beyond a photo credit. She said we were partners, but she was using me. My mom was right. My friendship with Freya wasn’t real or healthy. None of it was.

Thompson returned with a red plastic tray laden with food. I put my phone away and pulled myself together. I wasn’t about to share my hurt with this short outcast from my high school. He handed me my pizza and drink, but I’d lost what little appetite I had had.

My so-called date tried to make small talk, but I wouldn’t engage. I picked bits of sausage from my pizza, my thoughts entrenched on the selfie of Freya and Jamie, Freya’s words of love and devotion for her best friend: Jamie, not me.

Then Thompson said something that grabbed my attention. “I couldn’t help but overhear your mom’s concerns. About Freya Light.”

“My mom only met her once,” I muttered. “She doesn’t know anything about her.” I was still defending Freya. Why?

“Still . . . ,” Thompson continued. “I can sort of see why she’d be concerned. Freya and her husband have quite a scandalous past.”

I didn’t like his salacious tone. “And they’ve suffered for it,” I snapped. “Max pled guilty to assault. And they paid that dead hockey player’s family millions.”

Thompson was suitably chastened. “Of—of course,” he stammered. “It must have been a lot to go through. Plus, Max’s paternity suit.”

A tidbit of sausage dropped from my fingers. “What?”

“You didn’t know about that?”

I hated to admit that Thompson knew more about Max and Freya than I did, but he had caught me off guard. “When was this?”