She didn’t know what she had wanted out of seeing Jordan again, but not this. Some part of her had always known that if she called, Jordan would be doing okay without her. Knew that if she showed up, Jordan would be doing okay without her. Knew that if there was a way for their lives to be separated, Jordan would be doing okay without her. Knew that it was Hennessy who couldn’t live without Jordan.

She supposed she had hoped she was wrong.

As the cars gathered and revved, Jordan asked, “How can we run a Game? There’s no one to guard the exits. They’re all dead.”

“It ruins the fun when you say that, so I’m going to pretend you didn’t,” Hennessy said. “Also, I’ve already thought about that and, as they say, planned accordingly. It’s a straight shot. Starts with a triple flash of the lights and then it’s on for exactly seven miles. No exits in between. If we’re clear when it starts, we should be still by the end. No surprises for us. We’ll have a grand ol’ time.”

“ ‘We.’ Are we racing?”

“Yes.”

“Hennessy,” Jordan said, “there’s a GTR right there. A new nine-one-one behind it. I can’t see that thing two cars back because it’s too damn flat, but my pheromones suggest it’s a McLaren. Are you just planning on watching taillights?”

But she didn’t sound angry; she never sounded angry. She was always up for whatever madness Hennessy was into. Wasn’t this better? Hennessy thought. Wasn’t this how it should have been? Her and Jordan, Hennessy setting that timer on her phone, staying awake for as long as possible, never seeing the Lace.

“We should do this again,” Hennessy said.

“We are doing it again.”

“I mean you-and-me, I mean Jordan Hennessy. You should come with us or I should come light up Boston, except seriously can we do New York instead, because this place is like a hot girl’s elbow pit. It’s fine but there’s not a lot to do.”

“You been sleeping, Heloise?” Jordan asked.

The question was absolutely intolerable. All of it. The content, the timing, the nickname.

“You been painting?” Hennessy countered. “I can’t help but notice some paint on your neck there. Looks like Tyrian purple.” It did not. It looked like ordinary white paint, but Tyrian purple was a better reference to Declan Lynch.

Jordan should have been irritated by Hennessy’s misdirect, but instead her mouth whispered that smile again, the one Hennessy had seen on the sidewalk. She touched her fingers to her neck, feeling the paint, and the sweetness of the touch drove home the meaning of the smile.