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sent a quick text to Terry asking him to FedEx me a new one. Now that I’ve seen the tabloids, I feel disarmingly disconnected. It was a jarring reminder that even though Lily Ross the person is on vacation, Lily Ross the business is still chugging along. On a typical day, by the time I’ve been awake for an hour, I’ve grown numb to the endless beeping of alerts, texts, and e-mails. I’ve also talked to Terry ten times, my parents twice. No wonder I feel so clearheaded, I realize. I haven’t spent this much time alone in years.
    In the market, I settle on a quick list of ingredients and begin to make my rounds. At the deli counter is a pair of girls in denim shorts, maybe nine or ten years old. They’re daring each other to do something, their eyes glancing furtively at the ice cream freezers. I stand behind them, knowing what will happen when they turnaround. I brace myself for squeals, iPhones, maybe even questions about the magazines and Jed.
    But the strangest thing happens. The girls look up at me and I smile. They freeze. Before I can say hello, they’re gone, giggling and scampering down the aisles and out through the chiming front door. I’m not sure if they recognized me or were simply scared that they’d been caught.
    At the register, I wait behind a handsome young dad, his three little kids clamoring for more treats and hanging off the cart. He’s so preoccupied with them that he doesn’t glance in my direction. Then the middle-aged woman behind the counter swipes my card without noticing my name. I leave the store laughing, lugging the bags over my shoulder, and when my sunglasses slip off my nose, I don’t even put them back on.
    â€œWhat the hell were you thinking?”
    The screech of tires is still ringing in my ears as I gingerly climb from the front seat. There’s a puff of steam coming from underneath the hood of the Prius and my fingers are trembling. One minute, I was cruising through an intersection, almost home, windows down with the smell of the ocean filling up the car. The next, I was careening toward the passenger door of a pickuptruck, slamming on the brakes too late and whipping against the steering wheel.
    Tess is going to actually kill me. Her precious Pree, practically her third best friend, is wedged beneath the bed of a rusty old truck. The truck’s driver is angrily prying open his door and also appears ready to actually kill me. So at least when Tess finds me, I’ll already be dead.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.” I walk around to the front of the car, squinting to see and not-see at the same time. The car and the truck are locked together like pieces of a life-size puzzle, and there’s some kind of ominous-looking fluid pooling between them on the ground. “I didn’t see you.”
    â€œWell, that’s a relief, I guess.” The driver, a guy around my age in dirty shorts and a pale blue T-shirt, walks to the back of his truck, surveying the wreckage. “If you’d seen me or that stop sign you just blew through, I’d say you might need more than a new prescription.”
    It takes me a long moment to realize he’s talking about my sunglasses, which I’d stashed on the top of my hat. “Oh.” I pull off the glasses and wave them. “These? They’re not prescription.”
    We’re in the middle of an intersection, which, I now see, is a four-way stop. Another car, some kind of old-model Subaru, creeps up behind us, and the guy waves the driver on. Then he crouches between our cars, peering up at the underside of his truck, before glancing down at the puddle.
    â€œThey’re actually just sunglasses,” I explain, now wiping my lenses on the front pocket of my overalls, as if that might help. “For the sun? I got them from a street vendor in Rome.”
    I hear myself still talking and want to climb under the smoking hood and stay