“I think we’re getting a ride the rest of the way,” I say quickly. “So that’s good news. We just have to drop this load of potatoes. Bo’s calling his dispatcher now and—”

“What did you tell him?”

“Who?”

“You know who I mean.”

“Mike? Nothing!”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she says.

“No!” I protest.

Grimshaw gets up and walks out of the restaurant. “I didn’t tell him anything!” I call after her. My voice is high and squeaky and guilty as hell. I follow her to the door and watch her walk to Bo’s truck. A waitress comes and leaves a coffeepot on our table, so I sit back down to wait for Bo. My hands are shaking so bad it’s hard to open the little creamers. I put six of them in my coffee, until I run out of room in the cup. A few minutes later, Grimshaw comes back, and she’s carrying those stupid rose flannel sheets, and she dumps them on the table in front of me. My coffee spills down the front of Bo’s T-shirt.

“I was making money,” she says. “Real money, my own money. I was about to start taking dancing lessons. Real dance. For the first time in my life. Not that shit you saw, but the real thing. In a studio. Nobody cared that I was a Grimshaw. Nobody knew the church paid for me to see the dentist. For about three months, I had a life. And then you came.”

“I didn’t know the stupid church—what does it matter?”

“I’m leaving.” She jabs her finger in my face. “You can fuck anyone you want—go back and fuck Mike if that’s what you did, but don’t you dare follow me.” She stalks out as I sit there gasping for air. I grab my backpack with one hand, the sheets with the other, and run out into the parking lot, dragging the sheets through the cigarette butts and the oil spills. She’s climbing into the cab of the worst-looking rusted wreck of a Mack truck I’ve ever seen. The motor’s running. The truck driver gets in, grinning. When he sees me standing on the running board, the grin disappears. He pushes his hat up and scratches his forehead.

“You didn’t tell me you had a friend,” he says.

“I don’t,” she says.