I’d been dating Michael for almost two years, but I’d never been the kind of girl who went clubbing. Quiet wine bars, book readings, gallery openings. But the club lights flashed like a dazzling interactive light installation, and my pulse got caught up in the beat of the music. We danced, and when a guy came up to us, I knew it was a test. Back in college, my friends and I had a policy—“no woman left behind.” Aimee and I were new friends. Would she ditch me for some guy?

But as the music shifted seamlessly from one track to another, she shrugged him off like a jacket and came over, breathless, with beads of sweat along her hairline. And she kept choosing me, after each meeting at work, for road trips to see performance art, in her lightning-quick replies to my every text.

Together we had been so powerful.

I hadn’t just lost my best friend. I’d lost my best self too.

Michael slowed down, and I opened my eyes to a blur of blue and red lights. Before I even wondered if we were going too fast, I saw the cop car was already stopped behind the pickup he’d pulled over. Somebody else was having a bad evening too.

We crept past, and the dark asphalt streets ahead of us were empty under the steel streetlamps. Everything was quiet, each neighborhood locked behind a matching brick wall like separate kingdoms. Somewhere behind us the curved highway vibrated with oscillating traffic, but looking ahead, you’d think the entire world was intent on getting a good eight hours of sleep.

Michael kept driving about ten miles under the speed limit, even as the red and blue lights retreated in our rearview mirror.

“You need to find a doctor here.” His voice was definite, and it snapped my attention back.

“Dr. Johnson said—”

“Dr. Johnson isn’t here. You’re not getting better.”

“It takes time. The medicine—”

“Maybe you need a different dose.”

I bit back my answer, but my eyes filled with tears. You’d have thought I was all cried out. Michael didn’t want to hurt me, but he did want to fix me. And any reminder of my brokenness stung. Besides, what if he couldn’t engineer this problem away?

The silence between us was expectant, and I realized he was waiting for me to say something. “I’ll call tomorrow. For a referral.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly. I knew he was disappointed, just like me. This evening should have been easy. We could have been at the start of something really fun, a new friendship.