“You know you get that face you have right now from Reynard, right?”
When I look at him with one eyebrow c****d, he says, “Yeah. That face. That ‘How’ve you managed to live to this age with your gnat-size IQ?’ face. That ‘How did you get here, did someone leave your cage open?’ face. That ‘You must have a terribly empty feeling inside your skull’ face!”
I can’t help myself. I clutch my stomach and dissolve into laughter.
“Good,” he says, sounding satisfied. “Laughter is better than worry lines. Trust me, darlin’, it’s all gonna work out.”
This is when I realize the entire back-and-forth was a ploy—a very effective ploy—to make me feel better and put my mind at ease.
He doesn’t give a s**t about German cars one way or another. He just gives a s**t about me.
My laughter abruptly ends,
