“Corvettes don’t rust,” he announces.

I look at Grimshaw, and I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. It just seems so silly to me, that a grown man would care what anyone says about his car. Then I realize he doesn’t have a sense of humor about his car, or me, or maybe anything.

Grimshaw stares straight ahead of her. “Mike, Serena,” she says. “Serena, Mike.”

“Mike.” I extend my hand to him. “Mike, I’m charmed.”

He doesn’t take my hand. “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?” he asks. In the darkness, all I can see are the dull reflections of his eyes. The glowing end of Grimshaw’s cigarette flares up between our noses as she sucks down the last inch. Then headlights swing through the car and stop, and for a split second, Mike Lyle and I make eye contact. Although I wasn’t expecting to see warm pools of affection, I’m taken aback by the paleness of his eyes. The blue of them is so light there’s something empty-looking about them. I lean in closer to get a better look.

Then Mike says a bad word. He gets out and slams the door so hard it rocks the car. Mike walks into the light of the headlights. He’s not that tall, but his shoulders are wide. Somebody holds a beer out for him. He drains it, and then he holds the can out and with a series of flexes, grunts, and grimaces, crushes it into a ball with one hand while the other two watch. Then he tosses it off into the dark distance.

I look at her and roll my eyes. “That was for your benefit.” She doesn’t answer. I watch her light a second cigarette off the first one. “What are you smoking so much for? Are you nervous or something?”

“Maybe.”

“What do you see in that guy, anyway?”

“It’s what he sees in me,” she replies.

“And what’s that?”

“A future.”

I wait for her to explain, but she doesn’t. “I don’t get it.”

“You wouldn’t.” She exhales a long blast of smoke. “You and Mike might get along if—I mean—can’t you ever take a day off?”

“A day off what?”

“Isn’t there ever a day when you get up and say, ‘I’m not going to say anything sarcastic today until at least noon’?”

“Well, what did you go and tell him I thought his car was rusty for?” I demand.

“That was a mistake,” she sighs. “I was telling him about you, trying to explain that most of the time you’re not trying to be mean, you just want people to like you. Everything’s an act with you, a show. Most people don’t know that.”

“Well, do me a favor and don’t blow my cover.”

“Let’s just get out of here,” she says. “I’m getting cold.” I open the door and hand Grimshaw her shoes. I take off my sweater and give that to her, too.

“Take it,” I tell her. “I’m too hot.”