I looked down at my jeans and the gray argyle sweater I’d taken in to fit kind of small, over a long white layering tank. My style can best be described as middle-aged-librarian chic. Forgettable, my freedom linked always to anonymity. “Do you think— Could I borrow something to wear?”

She tossed the mascara onto her desk. “Anything you want!” She went to the pile on the bed, pulling out options best suited for an Italian mobster’s widow, and most were entirely too small for me. We settled on some black pencil pants that were big and long on her but fit me fine, and a black cashmere sweater.

“You look like Audrey Hepburn!” she said. “Here, hold still.” She brushed some shadow on my eyelids, liner on my bottom lash line, then whipped my hair up in some sort of a twist-type maneuver and pinned it in place. She moved me to her full-length mirror and stood behind me. “Look at your eyes,” she crowed. “All bright and dramatic. My finest work.” Her phone buzzed and she read it. “Sean’s at the bonfire, waiting for us at the road. Our own personal entrée to the Beach Gatsby. Let’s go!”

“I’ll be really careful with your sweater,” I promised, and looked in the mirror. Bright and dramatic. Sean. My hands went all jingly.

“Oh, please,” she said. “We’re going to a secret bonfire—let’s not ruin it by being careful.”

Exactly what I was worried about. I pulled the chain from my jeans pocket. I wished I could wear it. It would look nice with this sweater.

“Ooh,” Kira said. “Necklace? Put it on!”

I held it up for her to see the nest of tangled knots.

“Oh no…okay, hold up,” she said. She picked up the red lipstick and put a little on my bottom lip. “Smoosh together,” she directed. “Lucky you found me, because one of my rare talents is that I am exceptionally good at untangling things: earbuds, thread, Christmas lights—let me do this for you.”

I hesitated, held it tight. Ten years, and I couldn’t make it right; how was Kira going to fix it? What if she lost it?

“I can do it,” she said. “Trust me.”

Her smile was so true.

I dropped the tangled chain into her open hand.

Chapter Ten

KIRA DROVE HER MOM’S CAR, pointing out her favorite beaches and abandoned water towers, where, according to her, kids hung out to take their parents’ blood pressure and glaucoma medications because “they just grab whatever they can and they’re too drunk to read the prescription labels.”

“Jesus, is it a high school or a rehab facility?”