“Hey, Beth,” I said to the receptionist I’d known for years, one who’d danced at Penny’s wedding.

“Hey, Katie!” She got up and gave me a hug. “It’s so great to see you. What are you doing here?”

“I’m in town for a few days, I thought I’d come by and take Penny to lunch. Is she in with patients now?”

Beth looked confused.

“Penny’s . . . not in.”

“She isn’t? I texted her earlier and she said she was on her way here.”

“You’d better talk to Penny,” Beth said, growing more uncomfortable by the moment.

“Beth . . .” I began, but the phone rang, and Beth put her finger up, her face apologetic. I gave her a meek wave and walked out, bewildered.

My heart was racing. Was this beginning all over again? Once you know someone is capable of lying, you’re never on solid ground again.

That night, Penny and Stewart came to my parents’ house for dinner. I meant to pull her aside and ask her about the office, but she preempted me. She was pregnant!

It felt like a buzzkill saying anything, but at last I mentioned it gingerly.

“Penny, I stopped by Kootenai this afternoon to take you to lunch.”

“Oh,” she said serenely, her face already beatific in pregnancy, “I went home early, I was having horrible joint pain. With the baby and my lupus, I have to be extra careful.”

I nodded. Later, much later, I’d remember the look on Beth’s face. Oh how powerful it is: the desire not to see the truth.

Liz Is Not Your Little Project

I TELL MYSELF I just need new clothes as I duck into a San Telmo boutique that I’ve peered into the windows of a dozen times. But, really, I’m dressing up for G. I’m hopeless at shopping for clothes and spend an hour parsing through the racks of the small shop before choosing a handful of things to try on. I buy a floaty, feminine skirt with a pattern of red flowers, something Katie never would have worn.

Embarrassingly, I’m imagining a movie sequence in which the heroine removes her eyeglasses, shakes down her hair from its topknot, and is revealed to have been beautiful all along. I can’t go five minutes without replaying his comments from the other night: You would need to lose some weight. And instead of being mad, I just want to please him. I’m disgusted with myself.

Cali picks me up in a cab to take me with her to Calle Roja.

“Hey, you look great,” she says. “I’m excited for you to come to the milonga. It’s the only thing I look forward to more than the social.”