CHAPTER NINE

If my car had been closer, I think I’d have climbed in and driven away with a distracted “I’ll call you later” for James. Fortunately, by the time we reached the VW, I’d recovered enough not to do anything so rude.

James suggested we go for coffee, and he insisted on driving. I was too shell-shocked to argue—with the coffee or handing over my keys. He drove me to a fancy shop tucked into a nearby pocket of gentrification. It was the kind of place I’d normally love—quiet and intimate. Today, though, I wished he’d just pulled into the nearest Starbucks.

I felt exposed here. A half-dozen people turned