As an artist, I’m constantly distracted by the details that most people can filter out. Shapes, light, shadows, the subtle nuances that make up the world around me, I’m in their thrall. Naturally, my quick sketch made me late, and now it was fifteen minutes until I was supposed to be at the restaurant, and I was running through Back Bay in the frigid winter cold, in high-heeled boots, with my thick wool coat flapping behind me, no doubt looking like a crazy person.

“Belle, this is such a bad idea,” Sophie said.

“Why? We do it every year. It’s tradition.” My tone was defensive because I knew how Sophie felt about my relationship with my first ex-husband.

Yes, you read that right. First ex-husband. And yes, I am only twenty-eight and have two ex-husbands. I’ve had a few people give me side-eye over this fact, and I even had one woman accuse me of taking all the men. Yes, she did! I told her she owed me a thank-you for vetting them for the rest of womankind. Honestly.

I mean, it’s not like I wanted to be a twice-divorced twenty-something. It’s just that life stuff happened—big bad life stuff—and my coping skills in my early twenties had not been awesome. Besides, I’m impulsive, and when I’m in love, I’m sooooo in love, I lose all sense of reason. Clearly.

Considering her tone, I supposed I should have let Sophie’s call go to voicemail, but when your bestie calls from Arizona, you answer even when you know she’s going to challenge your life choices. I heard the distinct sound of water in the background.

“Soph, if you’re calling me from a swimming pool, I’m hanging up on you,” I said.

Laughter greeted me. “I’m not,” she said. “I swear I’m not.”

A suspicious splash punctuated her words.

“You are such a liar,” I accused. I hurried down the sidewalk, feeling the bitter wind sweep in from Boston Harbor.

“Technically, it’s a hot tub. What gave it away?”

“Splashing.”

“Sorry,” she said. She didn’t sound a bit sorry. “How’s the weather there? Another blizzard on the way?”

“It’s Boston in February,” I said. “Cold, gray, and sad. It’s just horribly sad. In fact, I think I have a case of seasonal affective disorder brewing.”

“Aw, that is SAD, poor Belle,” she said. “You should come visit me in Phoenix. It’s a delicious eighty-two degrees without a cloud in the sky.”

It was two hours earlier in Phoenix. While she enjoyed daylight, I was navigating the early dark on one of those painful thirteen-degree days where your snot freezes solid before you can blow it out your nostrils.

“Why, yes, I’ll have another margarita,” Sophie said, obviously not to me. “Thank you.”