He tipped his head to wipe his temple and cheek on his shoulder. “No, you’re not a bother,” he said. “You’re just always demanding something. And before you ask, no. I don’t remember anybody with the name on that license plate.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you about the name,” I said. But only because I completely forgot about it, I didn’t add.

“Good.”

“But since you brought it up . . . ,” I said.

He rolled his eyes and went back to his sit-ups. “What do you want, Nikki?”

I tossed the ball. He caught it and threw it back to me immediately. “What’s her name?”

He grunted, ignoring me.

“Oh, come on. What’s the big deal about you telling me?”

He stopped again. “The big deal is I tell you the name and next thing I know I’m having to rush to her house to either apologize to her or bail your ass out of trouble. Or, most likely, both.”

“Funny,” I said. “I thought I was bailing your ass out of trouble this time. You know, unless you don’t consider getting run over to be trouble.” I dropped the ball onto the mat and propped one foot on it. “I promise I won’t—”

“Dear God, you are relentless. Fine. Her name is Rebecca Moreno. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t remember why. And it’s making me crazy to constantly have all these things almost making sense, but not making sense. I just need a day to think, Nikki. I need a day for this to be my problem. Not ours. Mine.”

“Fine,” I said. “It’s your problem.” Part of me wanted to be offended that he was shutting me out so completely, but then again, how many problems was I hiding from him at any given moment?

“Thank you.” He did another three sit-ups.

“Now, to the reason I’m here,” I said.

He laughed. “I knew it.”

“No, this will be fun. I promise.”

“Fun?” He stood, grabbed a towel from a nearby table, and wiped his face and neck. “When have your plans ever been fun?”

I ignored him. “Have you ever been to igNight?”

He thought, then squinted through the sweat. “The hookah place?”

I nodded. “Hookah club is what they call it.”

He pitched the used towel across the room; it landed in a laundry basket, on top of a pile of other dirty towels. “Why on earth would I want to go to a hookah club? Or any kind of club, for that matter.”

“Because you’re not eighty,” I said, kicking his shoe. “Even if you constantly insist on acting like you are.” I hunched over and made a grumpy face.

“I don’t really see you as a big dancer, Nikki,” he said.