I did not call her that morning. That was the first decision. Owen, sitting in the guest room, had begged me at 1 AM to let him call her. He said she should have to hear it from him. I said no. I said I wanted to see what she would do. And at 10:23 AM on Sunday morning, while I was sitting at my kitchen table drinking a coffee I could not taste, my phone buzzed. It was Kat. The

text said: "Hey. Owen told me he talked to you. Can I come over? Please." I stared at the message for a long time. Then I typed: "Yes." She was at my front door in forty minutes. She had, as I said, the bottle of white wine. She had also, I noticed, done her hair. She had put on lipstick. She was dressed, on a Sunday morning forty minutes after finding out her fifteen-year best friend knew she had slept with her husband, in a white linen dress and gold earrings, like she was going to brunch. And that was the first moment — before we had said a single word to each other — that I realized I did not know Kat at all.