Then, I got an email from Jase Healey just before Thanksgiving. I hadn’t heard from him in months. I wrote back to him, told him I needed to get the hell out of Chicago, even just for a few days, and he wrote back an hour later, telling me to book a flight to Atlantic City. I told him no, that I’d get back to him at another time. When my life wasn’t as chaotic.

“Jason Healey? Jason Healey?” Casey screamed over the phone, the night she called me. She was back in Atlanta.

“Yes, Jason Healey. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No. But I have a problem with you recycling old boyfriends. And how you told us never to do it when we were at Smith.”

Not this conversation again, I thought, shaking my head. “Casey, you always have a p...

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