“I’ll go get her up,” Tony said, not waiting for an answer. “Unless you want to go up yourself: it’s at the top of the stairs.” One brow lifted, curious but not too; willing to live and let live.

“I’ll wait here.”

She woke because someone was sitting on her bed. In the near total dark of the bedroom she sat up, her heart beating so loud in her own ears that she felt dizzy.

“What?” she said. “Who?” But she knew already. That particular combination of tobacco and pot, coffee and licorice could only be Tony.

“I hope you didn’t wake me up to do a taste test.” Tony had been experimenting with mint julep recipes, and often required the opinions of his housemates. “What time is it?”

“Just past midnight. John’s downstairs.”

She couldn’t make out his expression in the dark, and his tone was unremarkable.

“I said, John’s downstairs.”

“I heard you. Give me a second.” Her pulse was racing and her throat felt swollen and rough. The room was cool but a fine sweat broke out all over her body.

Tony said, “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m not sure about anything,” Angie said, throwing back the sheet. “Except that I have to go down there.”

“Well, this is ironic,” Tony said. “After all the trouble I’ve caused on shoots because I couldn’t keep my pants zipped, I’m about to tell you to remember why we’re here.”

“‘Ironic’ is one word,” Angie said, pulling on a pair of sweat pants. “‘Bullshit’ is another. I know why we’re here, Tony. I’ve never lost sight of that and I never will.”

“Yeah, but. If you break up the wedding of the season, how’s that going to play down at the Piggly Wiggly?”

She could stand here in the dark and argue with Tony, Angie realized, or she could go down and find out from John if there was anything to be fighting about in the first place. In the two days since that kiss in the emergency room she had pretty much convinced herself that it was all her imagination; John was avoiding her because he was embarrassed and didn’t know how to tell her he had been drunk and couldn’t be held accountable for outrageous promises. Now she had to go downstairs and let him tell her that. Or she could refuse, simply send a message down: get lost.

A third possibility occurred to her, fantastic but oddly appealing: she could jump into the van and drive down the road to Orlando and see what minimum-wage jobs were hers for the asking at Disney World.

“You already blew the Piggly Wiggly when you dumped DeeDee,” Angie said, and left him there sitting in the dark on her bed.