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feeling my stomach roil at the sight of all that yellow goo. The waitress giggled at one of Harley dude’s witticisms and flashed her tongue stud at him. “Excuse me, miss?” I called. “Could we get some service, please?”
    â€œMen are such babies.” Elena picked up my plate, marched it over to the counter, then slid back into her seat across from me.
    â€œYou will be too when you’re dying,” I said plaintively. “And how come you’re not, anyway?”
    Elena hardly seemed to feel the effects of our carouse the night before. We’d driven from the Harbucks’ to the first hotel we’d seen, confirmed they allowed dogs and had a bar, checked in, deposited Izzy and our stuff in our rooms and proceeded to plunge together into the river Cuervo—lady’s choice. It was the only sensible response to what we’d just seen and heard. After the fourth shot, Brie’s face and the whiskey-clotted voice of her mother started to recede to a comfortable distance, and after the sixth I stopped counting. When the bartender cut us off we staggered back to our respective rooms. I had a vague memory of standing in the hallway trying to kiss Elena’s mouth and managing instead to plant one on her naked eyeball, at which point she’d keyed open my door and pushed me inside.
    â€œDidn’t anybody ever tell you not to do tequila shots with a Mexican?” she said now.
    â€œObviously not.”
    She sipped her coffee, considering me over the rim of the cup. “Do you still have the card Brie gave us?”
    â€œI think so.” Reluctantly, I took it from my wallet and passed it to her. We hadn’t talked about next steps, but I for one had every intention of returning to New York. No way was I driving halfway across the country on another fool’s errand.
    There was a sizzle from the grill, followed by a waft of something so noxious I felt my breakfast surge up into the back of my throat. “Jesus,” I said, forcing it back down, “what is that smell?”
    Elena sniffed the air appreciatively. “Mmm, liver and onions. It’s one of my mom’s specialties.”
    â€œSmells like week-old roadkill with a side of unwashed jockstrap to me,” I replied, and took a breath—two fatal errors. My stomach rebelled, pushed over the edge by the combination of the smell and my own vivid imagery. I lurched to my feet and sprinted for the bathroom.
    When I returned ten minutes later, minus my lunch but feeling marginally better, Elena was on her cell phone, nodding and scribbling something on the back of the card.
    â€œWho are you talking to?” I asked, sliding into the booth.
    Shh, she mouthed, putting her forefinger to her lips.
    â€œElena, please tell me you’re not on the phone with that woman.” She frowned at me and pressed her palm over her other ear.
    â€œSí, sí,” she said, followed by an excited burble of Spanish. It should have reassured me; she could have been talking to her mother. But it didn’t, because I knew she wasn’t. “Muchas gracias. Hasta mañana, Catarina.” That much I understood: “See you tomorrow, Catherine.”
    â€œI’m not driving to Texas to meet some crazy grief stalker,” I said, the instant she hung up.
    â€œShe’s not crazy.”
    â€œOf course she is, she’s a shrink. They’re all mental. That’s why they study psychology in the first place, to understand their own neuroses.”
    â€œWell if she’s mental, then so are we.”
    There wasn’t a damn thing I could say to that. It struck me then, that I had been on the verge of certifiable ever since Jess died. And that I was ready to be sane again.
    â€œAnyway, we won’t have to go to Texas,” Elena said. “Catherine’s flying to Charleston tomorrow. She found another one of us, a man who lost his partner, and they’re going to