“Feel better?”

Ellen nodded, her chin wobbling. She gave me a weak smile, her eyes still watery.

I took a deep breath. This is what the Lady pays you for, Jo. “Okay, let me see if I can guess what happened tonight. You got invited to a party by the mark’s son. You thought you’d go, hoping Klein would be there, he’d get jealous. Not bothering to tell me, I might add, despite the fact that the dead flamingo you’re wearing was bought with my money. Then—surprise!—Klein didn’t give a shit, and you got sloppy on two sips of champagne, made a goddamn spectacle of yourself. That about sum it up?”

Ellen slumped in the passenger’s seat, curling her legs up underneath her. Making herself as small as she could. Her face looked puffy and a little raw from the tears. I was careful to keep mine as blank and bored as I could. I told myself that hers was the sort of crying I recognized, an actress’s tears: conscious of the effect you’re making; check the mirror a few times when you’re home alone, to make sure you know what pretty vulnerability looks like on your face. Bright, brimming eyes: check. Swollen lips: oh, sure. Color in your cheeks but no snot running: perfect. And then think to yourself, Yep, heartbreak, nailed it. I told myself she was a better actress than I’d realized. I told myself she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Please,” Ellen whispered. Her hands were clenched and red. “I don’t know how to do this anymore. Sometimes it even feels like I . . . like I maybe even love him. Why does it feel like that?”

Dopamine. The thrill of a new adventure. Bourbon. Take your pick. “Maybe I love this whiskey,” I said, gesturing at the flask. “You see what I’m saying?”

Ellen’s nose twitched and she sniffled. “But he’s not whiskey. He’s a person. Have you ever even been in love?”

Oink, I almost said to her. Instead, I tried to catch my temper on its way out and failed. “It is a job. He is a job. Listen, love is a thing men invented as a convenient excuse when they’re done fucking women they can’t stand. Sorry, toots, no more hide-the-salami, can’t help it, don’t love you anymore. Not my fault. You see? Jesus Christ.”

“Do you have to be so goddamn ugly,” she said, bouncing the flask against the dashboard where it tumbled to her feet. But I could see it was the last of her fire, one last flash in the pan.

I kept on it.