“That’s a weird phrase. Whips aren’t smart. They smart.” She raises one eyebrow, hoping this gives the impression that she has firsthand knowledge.

He laughs. “See what I mean? That’s pretty good wordplay. Cath couldn’t do that. Cath couldn’t find her way out of a room with no walls.”

She decides to risk a little cattiness, knowing it will read as jealousy and he’ll be flattered. “But even she can find her ass with both hands. She’s got quite the caboose. If you could move that thing to her hip, she’d look like she had a sidecar.”

“Sidecars,” he says. “You never see those anymore.”

“I don’t think I ever saw one in real life, only movies. And maybe in that cartoon, from when we were kids? The one with Penelope Pitstop?”

“Oh, yeah. What was that called? With the bad guy and the dog who tried to cheat. Anyway, you know where you see sidecars? Cuba. Havana.”

“How’d you get to Cuba? I thought that was illegal.”

“I spent some time in Jamaica and there was a resort that arranged day excursions, did it in a way that you didn’t get your passport stamped. Havana was fascinating.”

“Yeah, but—what is there to see?”

“There’s always something to see. Don’t you want to travel?”

She’s pretty sure what she’s expected to say: Of course. Who doesn’t? The truth is that this town, Belleville, the Delaware shore—that’s about as far as she’s gotten from Baltimore in her time. And Frostburg, but she doesn’t count that. Not like she got outside much.

“Where’d you go to school?” she asks.

“Oberlin. That’s in Ohio.”

She wants to say, I know. Except she didn’t.

“You’re not from Baltimore.”

“I’m not, as it happens, but going to college in Ohio doesn’t mean you’re not from Baltimore. What makes you think I’m not a Baltimorean? I’ve lived there almost three years.”

Almost three years. Good to know.

“You ask a Baltimore person where they went to school, they tell you their high school. Dundalk for me. I started community college, then I dropped out. So, yeah, I guess you can say I went to college.”

They are dry now, but still naked. She moves to the kitchen, stands in front of her refrigerator. She can’t figure out if she is hungry or thirsty. The only appetite she can gauge is her desire for him. Eggs. She should make him eggs. No one ever cooks for the cook.

“Why did you drop out?”

She shrugs, taking out the carton of eggs, cracks four into a bowl. “I was young and stupid. Didn’t see what the point was. Maybe I’ll go back one day. Anyway, what are you going to do about Cath? Don’t be unkind. It’s not her fault—”

He has crept up behind her and she turns, kisses him. He gets almost too excited and she backs away, goes to light the stove. It’s a fussy old thing, often takes two, three match strikes to light. The Bakelite handles are loose and will be impossible to replace if they strip all the way. But she thinks it’s beautiful, rounded in a way that stoves aren’t anymore, the white enamel faded to a yellowish ivory. It reminds her of a pickup she saw once and coveted, a 1950s Studebaker. But maybe it was the man who drove the truck that she really wanted. All she saw was his forearm and a bit of his face, but he looked like someone who would take care of a woman. For days, she daydreamed about jumping into the bed of that truck, going home with that man.

“What are you going to do,” she repeats. “About Cath.”

“I guess I’ll call her, ask her to meet me somewhere.”

“You think that’s the kindest way?”

“Isn’t it?” Genuinely confused. Good.

“I know, it seems like it should be, but—my two cents, as a woman? Act as if y’all were never together. Like it was all in her head. Be courteous, but don’t get drawn into conversations. If she asks to talk or calls you—keep it short. When she asks to get together, say you can’t, no explanations. That’s a clean break. I hate to say it about my own sex, but women see any scrap of kindness as a promise. You’ve got to do whatever it takes to keep her from thinking she has a chance with you.” Tiny pause. “Unless she does? Maybe this was just a onetime thing for you?”

He doesn’t speak for a while and she’s worried she’s misjudged him, that last night and today have been nothing more than the passion and excitement fueled by the encounter with Gregg. It won’t be the first time she’s read a man wrong. Yet she was sure this man wanted her, although there was something he was fighting in his own nature. A wife, probably. His story doesn’t add up. The travel, the “seasonal” work, the shiny new truck. Yes, there’s probably a woman and a kid or two somewhere. Maybe he has families stashed all over the country and that’s why he’s so big on traveling.

“Okay,” he says. “I want to do what’s right.”

He has to know what she’s saying is too good to be true. Good Lord, if this were the kindest way to break up with a woman, that would be the greatest thing that ever happened to men. Maybe she should write an advice book for men, one that tells them everything they want to hear, as opposed to all those books for women, which tell them to be the opposite of what they are, no matter what that is.