Kaavi raised an eyebrow at me, the way she did if I did something stupid when we were kids, and had tossed her head back and downed it in one go. Always more graceful, always more elegant. Then she threw a fresh T-shirt at me.

“Put this on. There’s no way I can concentrate with that giant stain on your boob.”

I did what she asked. I’ve always done what she asked.

She sat on a chair and crossed her arms.

“Go on, then?”

I didn’t sit. I paced around her room as I told her. I told her what things were like with Spencer. About how he treated me through college. About how I loved him in the way you do when you don’t know any better—so deeply that you lose your sense of direction. That it was nearly impossible for me to find my way back. That I knew I had to, after what I found out about him. The thing to finally break the spell. Or the curse.

I told her about the abuse, my eyes trained on the floor, my voice rational and robotic. Those things happened to a different girl. I wasn’t her. Not anymore.

I told her how her parents took me in when I showed up at their doorstep, a broken shell of who I used to be, and begged that they didn’t tell her I was there, just in case she was still loyal to him. Just in case she told him where I was and he found me again.

I didn’t tell her about the baby, but we weren’t best friends all our lives for nothing.

“Nadia?” she asked, and all I could do was nod. Something flashed through her eyes—was it understanding, or hurt, or rage, or recognition? I don’t think I’ll ever truly know.

“And that’s why,” I finished, feeling heady, probably from the nerves but also from finally being able to talk about it after so long, “that’s why I came. Because I couldn’t have him hurt you—hurt all of you, but especially Nadia—the way he hurt me.”

Kaavi was quiet. It was disconcerting.

But still, I gave her a moment. This was big news; I knew that. I basically told her that the man she was about to marry was the thing nightmares were made of. She probably had a million questions for me, even if she believed me.

She did believe me though. I knew it the second I finally looked her in the face.

And she didn’t have a million questions. Just one.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried, so many times. But you were so angry with me for disappearing, and your mother was so upset about—”

“Not now. Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“I think maybe”—I faced her full-on, my eyes searching out hers, years of things unsaid—“I was afraid of appearing weak. Of not being in control.”

She blinked. And then she shook her head.

“Well, I’ve really gone and gotten myself fucked, haven’t I?” She rubbed her eyes.