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JIMMY REFUSES TO LEAVE me alone in the house, meaning alone with only Rip the therapy dog as company, and stays until Dr. Ben arrives from his office.

Jimmy reluctantly gave Norma the keys to his own car for the short trip to her Airbnb, then drove us in my car back to Amagansett. Along the way, and over my objections, he placed a call to Dr. Sam Wylie to tell her what had happened.

When Sam was on speaker, she asked if I’d eaten anything before court. I told her I’d had an energy bar. So she asks what I had to drink and I tell her two cups of coffee and a Red Bull, does that count?

“Oh good,” she says. “The breakfast of champions.”

Then she says, “You know you’ve gotten weak like this before when you got yourself to the brink of dehydration.”

Jimmy says, “Her boyfriend’s an animal doctor. Is there a way for him to stick an IV needle in her ass to get her attention?”

“Just make her drink about a gallon or so of water when she’s back at the house, get her to bed as soon as you can, and call me in the morning,” Sam says, before adding, “Idiot.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say to Jimmy,” I tell her.

“We all know who I meant,” Sam says.

When we’re in my living room Jimmy sits next to me on the couch and watches as I put away two plastic bottles of water, making me promise that I’ll eat something after Ben arrives. I promise.

When Ben does walk through the front door, Jimmy puts his arm around me, kisses my hair, and says, “I love you.”

“Hey,” Ben says. “Hands off my girl.”

Jimmy stands. “Fine,” he says. “You can have her.”

Ben takes Jimmy’s place next to me on the couch. Rip is at our feet. Then Ben pulls me close to him.

“Hey,” he says. “You okay now?”

“No,” I say.

I start to cry. It all comes out of me in a rush, the kind of crying I usually try to keep to myself. But tonight I can’t stop myself.

Ben doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. We stay where we are, barely moving, for what feels like a long time, as I just let it go.

When I do finally try to say something, he gently puts a finger to my lips.

“Hard as this might be to process,” he says, “sometimes the best thing for you is to not talk.”

I look up at him, only imagining how awful my eyes must look, along with my face in general. “Where the hell have you been all my life?” I ask.

“I’m here now,” he says, smiling at me. “Take the win.”

And I do.