Suzanne asks the following morning when I call her from a gift shop at LaGuardia, give her a rundown of the night before, and solicit her advice about how to approach Margot when we meet her at our gate in a few minutes. “Maybe you’re just being paranoid?”I nervously assess Andy’s progress in line at an adjacent Starbucks and say, “Yeah. Pretty sure. Except for a quick good-bye at the end of the night, she didn’t speak to me again. Not once.”Suzanne clears her throat and says, “Is that all that unusual at a big party? Weren’t a bunch of your friends around? Would you guys normally be connected at the hip all night?”I hesitate, knowing that these questions are somewhat pointed—Suzanne’s not-so-subtle way of criticizing what she believes is, and once even referred to as, my codependence with Margot. And, although I’d usually finesse the inquiry and defend the friendship, I don’t have time now to take that detour. Instead I just reiterate, “Look, Suzanne. She’s definitely not happy about the whole thing … And to be fair—I can’t really blame her.
