Chapter 4: The Friend at the Door

"Hide," I said.

Massimo was already moving.

He took his coat from the chair and went into my bedroom, and the door closed without a sound.

I smoothed my hair, pulled the cardigan around my sweatpants, and stood still for a moment.

Then I opened the door.

Cinzia stood in the hall in a cream coat, holding a paper bag against her chest.

Her eyes were wet and her nose was pink.

"Fio," she said. "Oh my God. You look terrible."

"Thanks."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that." She laughed, and the laugh turned into a sob. "Can I come in? Please. I brought soup."

I stepped back.

She walked in like she owned the place.

That was Cinzia. She had walked into every room of my life that way since we were twelve, with her hair swinging and her arms already open.

I used to love it.

She set the bag on my counter and turned to hug me, hard, her cheek against mine.

"I've been sick about last night," she said into my hair. "Sick. I felt like I was killing you."

"It's okay."

"It isn't. We talked all through dinner like you weren't there. Remo does it without thinking, and I let him."

She pulled back and held my face in her hands.

"You're my best friend," she said. "I would never do anything to hurt you."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Of course," I said.

My voice was perfectly even.

For five years I had practiced not letting my face move when I heard something that hurt. I had been good at it long before I had a reason.

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