“Shae’s sister. It was her Camaro, you know. Tonya had been flown out to some fancy interview in Memphis. Didn’t get the job, but she let us borrow her car while she was gone. So we did. We were eighteen. What did we know at eighteen? We thought we knew what we wanted, what was best for us. We didn’t care about the show. We just wanted to drive that car.”

Her laughter explodes. People at nearby tables turn to see what the fuss is about, but Elizabeth has no volume control or self-awareness at the moment, so when she throws her hands up to shout, “We just wanted to drive,” her napkin goes flying, cascading to the table, then her chair, then the floor. A quiet game of Plinko. Elizabeth picks it up, folds it in a square and puts it on her lap before resting her elbows on the table and leaning toward me.

She finds her inside voice. “I swore I’d never get over it, but people told me that I’d make other friends, that I’d move on. They acted like I couldn’t feel for myself because I was only eighteen, like I needed them to feel for me and report back so I could be a person. But guess what? They were wrong. I was right, and they were wrong. To this day, I’ve never made a better friend, and I’ve never gotten over it. Never. And you know what else? We really did just want to drive. So it’s like, fuck the Dead, you know? Fuck ‘Scarlet Begonias.’ ”

•  •  •

We eat our crème brûlée because it’s in front of us, but as soon as the bill comes, I sign and we’re gone. I’ve had too much to drink, too, but I’m our best bet to drive, because Elizabeth is in rare, rare form—possibly in as bad a shape as I’ve ever seen her. I guess breaking ties with a twenty-year-old boy-toy might prompt flashbacks to being twenty years old and dumb, too, and all the stupid decisions people make, and all the senseless twists of fate that leave us sad and lost despite having zero perspective. Even so, her revelation was particularly disturbing, because I should have known it. I should already know all of the most traumatic moments branded in her brain, so I do wonder what else she’s been holding back all this time. Compassion overrides the wondering, of course, and I ask, “How are you doing?”

With a mile to go, Elizabeth rolls down her window and leans against the door, eyes closed and mumbling to herself. She goes on and on for some time before saying, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Should I pull over?”

She moans.

“Can you make it five minutes?”