Though it’s less than a ten-minute drive from Booger’s to where Suzanne lives, she promptly falls asleep in the car after giving me her home address. I don’t mind, because I’m used to being alone with my thoughts, but I’m a little worried about her.

In a small town, everyone knows everyone, and their dirty laundry too. Maybe all those stares she got on the way in weren’t about her outfit.

I use the map app in my phone to navigate to her house. She lives in a lovely little bungalow with pink azaleas lining a white picket fence that encloses a tidy yard. I park the car in the driveway, then go around to her side to help her out. When I open the door and unbuckle her seat belt, she’s snoring.

“Suzanne.” I gently poke her arm. “We’re home. Wake up.”

She rolls her head toward me, mumbling something about cats. I write it off to the booze, then drag her out of the car as gently as I can, wondering if she was drinking before she came to pick me up, because she’s really out of it.

We stagger to the front door. I have to rummage around in her purse for the keys because she’s literally sleeping standing up, leaning against me. When I get the front door open, I’m assaulted by the smell of cat piss.

Then the little beasts descend in full force, caterwauling to raise the dead.

“De Niro!” Suzanne slurs, cracking open an eye. “Pacino! Stallone! Shut the hell up, Mommy’s head hurts!”

I help Suzanne over the threshold and into the house. She collapses onto the living room sofa, and all three cats—a calico, an orange tabby, and one big, fuzzy black bastard—jump up on her like they’re about to eat off her face.

“Shoo!” I wave my arms around, hoping to dislodge them from poor Suzanne, but they just sit there and look at me like I’m stupid. They don’t, however, make any move to devour her, so I watch them warily for a moment, waiting to see what they’ll do.

They settle in around her, curling up their tails as they nestle on her chest, her stomach, and between her legs, and watch me back.

“Okay, beasties, I’m leaving you in charge of Mommy. We good?”

The big black one—I think that’s Stallone—yawns. I’m being dismissed.

I head into the kitchen in search of water for Suzanne and find an open bottle of wine on the counter, a third full, and an empty wineglass beside it with hot-pink lipstick prints that match the color Suzanne wore tonight.

Now I’m not so much feeling sorry for her as feeling furious that she drove over to pick me up after having that much wine. When she’s sober tomorrow, we’re going to have a nice long talk about how driving under the influence of even one glass of alcohol can be deadly.

If anyone knows how true that is, it’s me.

Grinding my teeth, I get a bottle of water from the fridge, then set it on the coffee table next to the sofa. I turn the lamp off on the side table, slip off Suzanne’s heels, and settle a blanket over the lower part of her legs, leave her handbag and keys on the dining room table, and lock the front door before pulling it shut behind me.

It takes about fifteen minutes of walking before I’ve calmed down enough that my hands no longer shake.

It’s a beautiful night, but it’s chilly. The moon is full, the air is thick with the scent of the ocean, and the stars are out in full force. They never blazed this brilliantly in smog-choked Phoenix. Wishing I’d brought a coat to dinner, I walk through Suzanne’s quiet neighborhood until I reach the main boulevard leading into town, then I head south toward home.

Seaside is one of those towns whose sidewalks curl up when the sun goes down, and tonight is no exception. The boulevard is deserted. The only thing keeping me company are the moths dancing silently around the streetlamps overhead. I walk, unhurried, absorbed in thought as I listen to the distant boom of the surf and the crickets’ serenade, the music of the night.

You’d love it here, Cass. You’d love it so much.

Out of nowhere, a classic black Mustang blasts past at top speed, engine rumbling like a wolf’s growl, the draft in its wake blowing my hair and skirt sideways. About fifty yards past me, the driver slams on the brakes. The car screeches to a stop in the middle of the street. Then it sits there, engine idling, brake lights glowing red in the darkness, steam billowing from the tailpipe like smoke from the nostrils of a dragon.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I mutter, knowing exactly who it is.

The car shifts gear and slowly begins to reverse.

When the Mustang has backed up far enough so it’s beside me in the street, it stops. The passenger door pops open and swings wide. Theo’s eyes glint in the dim interior—he’s leaning over the seat, looking out at me.

Waiting.

After a moment’s hesitation, I get in, pull the door shut, and pretend this is all no big deal by checking things out.

Like the outside, the inside of the car is pristine. I could eat right off the dashboard, and I’d be shocked if the ashtray has ever been used, even to hold coins. There’s not a speck of dust or a stray hair in sight. He must keep a vacuum in the trunk.

But even in such a sterile environment, his mark is unmistakable. A blues station plays softly on the radio—some siren with a whiskey-soaked voice croons about lost love—and the air is warm and smells like him, soap and leather and brooding masculinity, a hint of forest at night.

Maybe he’s a shape-shifter, a lone wolf who hunts in the woods when the moon is full.

I need to stop watching the Syfy channel.

I blurt, “I’m sorry I cursed at you this morning. That wasn’t nice.”

Theo exhales in a big gust, like he’s been holding his breath. Then he puts the car into Drive and we start moving, at a much slower pace than he was driving before. A small silver medallion swings from a chain on the rearview mirror, winking in the light. It’s a patron saint medal, but I can’t tell which one.

My curiosity about him intensifies.

Is he religious? Did he have a spiritual conversion after his accident? Or is he like me, a former believer who keeps the medal as a reminder of his lost delusion that somewhere out in the universe, someone actually listens to our prayers?

I glance over at him. In the shadows, his profile is all hard angles, from the slash of his nose to the hard edge of his jaw. He appears tense and uncomfortable, and I wonder why he bothered to stop when he’s so clearly aggravated by my presence.

“I wish I knew why you don’t like me.”

Startled, he blinks. He looks over at me with an expression of anguish that’s so raw and vulnerable, I know what I’ve said has hurt him, and also that my assumption he doesn’t like me is true.

Those two things together don’t make any sense, but nothing about this man makes sense. Every interaction I’ve had with him so far has confused and frustrated me. He’s like a puzzle missing so many pieces, it can never be solved.

I continue with my confession, because the dark has a way of coercing them.

“I’m a very likeable person. At least I think I am. I’ve never had an enemy in my life. I’m actually a bit boring—my idea of excitement is binge-watching a new series on Netflix. So imagine my surprise when a complete stranger takes an obvious and intense dislike to me before I’ve even spoken a word to him. Imagine how small and hurt that would make me feel. Not to mention really fucking pissed.”

He looks at me like I’m stabbing him in the gut with every word.

“I know. It’s not fair. We’re in a confined space, I’m doing my famous verbal diarrhea thing, and you can’t respond. And I cursed again. Which is an unusual thing for me because I was trained from birth by a mother too concerned with other people’s opinions that only classless women with inferior vocabularies ever use foul language, but honestly, the word ‘fuck’ is so useful for so many different situations I can’t resist the occasional slipup.”

I pause to take a breath and sort my thoughts. “Where was I? Oh, right. You not liking me and me not liking that.”

Poor Theo looks like he’d rather be sitting in an electric chair than the driver’s seat, but too bad. This is my opportunity to vent, and I’m taking it.

“You know how in romantic comedies there’s usually some stupid situation that arises that could be resolved without all the drama if the couple just had a conversation? Like, just sat down and hashed the problem out? I feel like that’s the deal with us. Like if you would just…I don’t know, write down what I did that irritated you to the point of looking at me like you want to slam a dog poo pie into my face, then maybe I could apologize, or not do whatever that thing is again, and we could go on and have a decent working relationship while the house is under construction and not have to tiptoe around each other because there’s this huge black cloud of animosity following us around. You know?”

He doesn’t know. I can tell because he looks as if he’s about to puke, and his hands are curled so tightly around the steering wheel, it’s in danger of snapping in half.

“Never mind. Forget I mentioned it. Honestly, it’s your prerogative to dislike whomever you want. I’m just being sensitive. No, scratch that, I’m not being sensitive! Any other rational person would feel the same way! Nobody likes to be disliked!”

Theo’s swallow is audible, and now I feel like an idiot.

I sigh and drag my hands through my hair. “I’m going to be quiet now.”

We drive for a while in silence until we come to a stop sign. I shiver in my seat, rubbing my hands over my arms for warmth. Seeing that I’m cold, Theo shrugs out of his jacket and hands it over to me.

“Oh. Thank you.” I drape it over my front like a blanket, enjoying its warmth and trying not to start laughing because this is so weird and I’m so uncomfortable and I only have two knee-jerk reactions when I’m feeling awkward: laughter or sarcasm.

We start driving again, then it’s only a few more turns until we’re at my house. He pulls into the driveway, shuts off the car, and gets out. Before I can open my door, he’s opened it for me. He holds out his hand.

So he’s a gentleman psychopath who hates my guts. Noted.

I allow him to help me out of the car. When I hand him his coat, he takes it, but instead of putting it on, he settles it over my shoulders. Then, like an old-fashioned suitor, he takes my arm and leads me up the path to the front porch, holding aside a thorny branch from one of the wild rosebushes so I don’t get whacked by it as I pass by.

This is so confusing.

He pauses at the bottom of the porch steps, but this time, I’m not inviting him inside. I slide his jacket off and hand it back to him with a murmured “Thank you,” then turn to go into the house.

Theo stops me with a touch on my elbow. Surprised, I turn back to him. He reaches into his coat. I think he’s going to remove his writing pad, but instead, he takes out a business card. He hands it to me, his eyes shining like gems in the low light.

“Um. Thanks.” I stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next, until he points at the card. “Yes, I have your number. I’ll call you Monday, no matter what I decide.”

He shakes his head like I don’t understand what he’s trying to say. Which, naturally, I don’t. “You don’t want me to call you Monday?”

I swear his eye roll is sarcastic.

He pulls his jacket on, takes the card in one hand, and with the other points to his email address on the bottom. He taps it three times.

“You want me to email you instead?”

This time his head shake is a hard jerk. I can tell he’s getting frustrated. He makes a rolling motion of his hand, but I have no idea what he means.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Theo, cut me a break, will you? I suck at charades.”

He gives me back the card, then whips out his little notepad. He scratches something on it and holds it out for me to see.

When I look up at him, he drops the pad to his side and stares at me. That muscle is jumping in his jaw again. His eyes are unnaturally bright, as if he’s running a fever.

“Do you want to talk?”

He looks away, draws a breath, closes his eyes. Then he looks back at me. He nods—then shakes his head.

“Yes and no.”

He nods again, because I’ve interpreted him correctly.

“Well, hell, Theo,” I say, irritated. “Make up your damn mind.”

His lips curve upward. He covers his mouth with his hand to hide his smile, then clears his throat.

It’s a startling sound, because it’s a sound. I stare at him, breathless, my pulse picking up pace until it’s zooming.

He doesn’t notice my sudden stillness. He just nods—three times, so I can’t mistake his meaning—then turns around and walks back to his car. He gets in and drives away without a backward glance.

I stand on my porch for a long time, Theo’s business card clutched in my hand, the pounding of the surf ringing in my ears. Then I go inside and fire up the computer.

Into Google’s search box I type: Can mute people make sounds?