“They didn’t. I just left.”

“But they know you saw them, right?”

“No.”

“Wow,” I say, wondering how she could have such superhuman restraint. I would have castrated him on the spot. In fact, all I want to do is change my flight from L.A. to Atlanta and go do it myself. With a pair of kids’ craft scissors.

“I know, Lainey. I know I’m pathetic,” she says, sobbing again. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s okay, honey. It’ll be okay. I promise,” I say, feeling desperate for her. “Just take a deep breath.”

She keeps crying, saying she doesn’t know what to do.

“Okay,” I say, gathering my thoughts. “For starters, you need to tell him you know. That you saw him.”

“And then what?”

“And then you dump his ass.”

“Oh, my God, Lainey,” she says. “I can’t believe this. I have to start over. I’m thirty-two.”

“Thirty-two is young—”

“Not when it comes to having babies—”

“You’ll have a baby, Hannah. I know you will.”

“But I put everything into that relationship. It’s all I have.”

“It’s not all you have. You have me. And Tyson,” I say as adamantly as I can.

“My mother is going to lose her mind,” she says. “My life is seriously over, Lainey.”

My heart skips a beat, wondering how she could think such a thing, let alone say it aloud. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that,” I say, thinking of our pact. A promise to come together if any of us ever hits rock bottom. I’m pretty sure this qualifies.

“Have you told Tyson?” I ask.

“No. I can’t bother him with this. He has a big trial next week—”

“Oh, please, Hannah. This is way more important. And anyway—you promised. We all promised—” I say, suddenly knowing what I have to do. “I’m changing my flight and coming to Atlanta. Tonight.”

“But your audition.”

“I don’t care. It’s a stupid, minor role,” I lie.

“You still need to go—”

“Hannah. Stop it right now,” I say as firmly as I can. “I’m coming down there. And that’s final.”

“Okay,” she whimpers. “Thank you, Lainey.”

—

The second we hang up, I head straight to the ticket counter, profiling the three agents, wondering who would be most helpful to my cause. There is an older lady who looks like she bakes homemade cookies for her grandchildren; a girl about my age who is more likely to have seen my show (always useful in customer service matters); and a forty-something man I could flirt with.

I wind up with the older woman. According to the pin on her shirt pocket, her name is Lydia, and I use it twice as I tell her my predicament and how worried I am about my friend.

“That poor girl,” Lydia says, going on a mini-tirade against men as she click-clacks on her computer, searching for flights to Atlanta. When she finally looks back up at me, she says, “Okay. So the good news is—I got you on the next flight to Atlanta—which you can just make.”

“And the bad news?”

“Your bag definitely won’t make it.”

“That’s okay,” I say, handing her my credit card.

She runs it, explaining that my bag will be rerouted and then delivered to me. She jots down a number I can call if I have any problems, then hands it to me along with my new boarding pass.

“Thank you again,” I say. “You’re an angel.”

“You’re so welcome, dear,” she says. “And best of luck to your friend. She’s very lucky to have you.”

—

a few minutes later, I’ve boarded my flight and am settling into my middle seat in the back of the plane. I text Hannah that I’m on my way, then call Tyson, knowing he won’t pick up. Tyson hates talking on the phone. Most of our communication consists of exchanging funny memes or TikToks, with an occasional link to a human-interest story. Conjoined twins separated. A dog reunited with his owner after a hurricane. A toddler calling 911 to save his mother.

Sure enough, Tyson shunts me to voicemail. It’s my pet peeve—the least he could do is let it ring through and pretend to have missed the call. I call him right back and he shunts me a second time.

Pick up, pls! I type. It’s important.

Moving ellipses appear, followed by the words Can’t talk now. What’s up?

I type back: It’s about Hannah.

My phone immediately rings.

“Is she okay?” he asks, sounding panicked.

“Yes. She’s fine,” I say, then lower my voice. “But Grady cheated on her. She caught him in bed with another woman.”

I know that my seatmates have no choice but to eavesdrop, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch the lady in the window seat do a double take.

“Dang,” Tyson says under his breath. “I knew that guy was trouble.”

“Yeah. You did,” I say.

“When did this happen?”

“Today. I’m actually on a flight to Atlanta as we speak—”