She hugged me in the doorway. She cried immediately. She said, "I am so, so, so sorry." She said, "It was one time. It was one stupid, drunk time. I love you so much. I love Owen as a brother. I love Derek. I was blackout drunk. I do not remember most of it. I have not been able to sleep for two months." She said it had been destroying her. She said she had tried to tell me four separate times. She said — and this is the part that I want you to remember, because I am going to come back to it — she said,

"I need you to get over this." Not "I need you to forgive me." Not "I am willing to do whatever it takes." Not "I will spend the rest of my life earning this back." She said: I need you to get over this. As if my not getting over it was the problem. As if my capacity to keep our friendship intact was the thing being tested, and she was waiting to see if I would pass. I sat across the kitchen table from her. I watched her cry. I watched her drink two glasses of the wine she had brought to my house. And I heard myself say, in a voice that was calmer than I was, "Okay, Kat. I'll get over it."