She had a key to the part of me that Damian never reached, the interior country that only your oldest friend gets a passport to.

When your husband cheats, he betrays a promise.

When your best friend of twelve years does it with him, she betrays something older and stranger and harder to name — she takes all the knowledge you gave her in trust, all those years of three-in-the-morning honesty, and she uses the map you drew her of your own heart to find the softest place to put the knife.

I could have survived Damian.

Men leave; it is sad and ordinary.

What I did not know if I could survive was Valentina — that the woman who had held my hand through her divorce had spent the last six months letting herself into my home.