My best friend of 37 years suddenly asked me to take one LAST photo together during our beach trip. When I asked why she said “last,” she gave me an unsettling smile and whispered, “Because tomorrow, you’re going to find out who I really am… and you may never want to see me again.”

I looked at my mother. At the woman who had kept the most painful secret of her marriage for thirty-seven years, so I could keep my best friend.

Then I looked at Paige, alone by the swing set where we used to play.

“I told everyone you were a snake,” I said. My voice broke. “I told Bethany. I told Lorna. I let them say that about you.”

“I know.”

“You should hate me.”

“Mer.” She almost laughed through her tears. “I’ve had thirty-seven years of practice not hating you. I’m not going to start now.”

I crossed the yard. I don’t remember walking. I just remember reaching her, and holding up my left hand with the crooked little finger, and her hooking hers through it the way we had on the school bus when we were seven.

Then she pulled me into her arms, and we both fell apart in front of twenty-five people and a lemon cake.