feeling my stomach roil at the sight of all that yellow goo. The waitress giggled at one of Harley dudeâs witticisms and flashed her tongue stud at him. âExcuse me, miss?â I called. âCould we get some service, please?â
âMen are such babies.â Elena picked up my plate, marched it over to the counter, then slid back into her seat across from me.
âYou will be too when youâre dying,â I said plaintively. âAnd how come youâre not, anyway?â
Elena hardly seemed to feel the effects of our carouse the night before. Weâd driven from the Harbucksâ to the first hotel weâd 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 Cuervoâladyâs choice. It was the only sensible response to what weâd just seen and heard. After the fourth shot, Brieâs 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 Elenaâs mouth and managing instead to plant one on her naked eyeball, at which point sheâd keyed open my door and pushed me inside.
âDidnât anybody ever tell you not to do tequila shots with a Mexican?â she said now.
âObviously not.â
She sipped her coffee, considering me over the rim of the cup. âDo you still have the card Brie gave us?â
âI think so.â Reluctantly, I took it from my wallet and passed it to her. We hadnât 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 foolâs 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. âJesus,â I said, forcing it back down, âwhat is that smell?â
Elena sniffed the air appreciatively. âMmm, liver and onions. Itâs one of my momâs specialties.â
âSmells like week-old roadkill with a side of unwashed jockstrap to me,â I replied, and took a breathâtwo 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.
âWho are you talking to?â I asked, sliding into the booth.
Shh, she mouthed, putting her forefinger to her lips.
âElena, please tell me youâre not on the phone with that woman.â She frowned at me and pressed her palm over her other ear.
âSÃ, sÃ,â she said, followed by an excited burble of Spanish. It should have reassured me; she could have been talking to her mother. But it didnât, because I knew she wasnât. âMuchas gracias. Hasta mañana, Catarina.â That much I understood: âSee you tomorrow, Catherine.â
âIâm not driving to Texas to meet some crazy grief stalker,â I said, the instant she hung up.
âSheâs not crazy.â
âOf course she is, sheâs a shrink. Theyâre all mental. Thatâs why they study psychology in the first place, to understand their own neuroses.â
âWell if sheâs mental, then so are we.â
There wasnât 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.
âAnyway, we wonât have to go to Texas,â Elena said. âCatherineâs flying to Charleston tomorrow. She found another one of us, a man who lost his partner, and theyâre going to