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Trying to be casual, I relax in my seat, pick up my coffee cup, and lift it to my lips. “Your…” To my horror, I croak and feign a cough, then take a sip of my coffee before I finish my sentence. “Your ring, it’s a crown with a jewel in it.”

“Oh,” she says and closes her eyes, relaxing in her seat again. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Are you okay? Does your head hurt?”

She sighs in deep discontent and pouts, her bare lips compressing into a pout that’s nearly as disarming as the smile it replaces. “Not as much as my pride, but yeah.”

“Your pride?”

“I asked you to dance. And you said no.”

I grimace. “I’m sorry. I don’t dance. Ever.”But. I would have done anything else you asked.

She looks at me knowingly. “You’d think I would have learned my lesson. I was coming out to get some air. I saw you sitting there, looking so angry. I thought…this was my chance.”

“To have your nose broken and end up in A&E?”

Her sudden laugh appears, and then she winces again.

“Shit, here, I forgot.” I reach into the back seat and pull out a small white bag that they gave me on discharge. “There’s a gel ice pack in there. It’s probably melted a little, but the cold will help.”

“Thank you.” She pulls it out and lays it across her forehead and settles in her seat with a sigh. “So what happened to make you look like that? So sad?”

“I thought you said I looked angry.” I inject teasing humor in my voice to defuse the way her question makes my heart skip a beat.

“I saw both, but mostly sadness.”

My heart skips another beat.

My body, my fame, the car I drive, the company I keep—tell a very particular story of who I am. I’ve cultivated a public persona that says I’m strong, controlled, decisive, unapologetic, successful. But there is a cost that comes with allowing people to believe that it’s all there is to me. I live with the consequences of it—isolation, insecurity, imposter syndrome, and deep skepticism. And I never let anyone see me sweat.

So how can she see what I’ve only acknowledged to myself? The light turns green, and I’m grateful for a reason to turn back to face the road.

“Maybe I’m just projecting because that’s how I imagine I look when I think about my dad. I miss him every day. But I’m so mad at him for dying and leaving me alone, too.”

Maybe it’s because she saw the sadness I didn’t think anyone else could. Or maybe it’s because we’re alone. Whatever the reason, I feel able to speak aloud words I’ve only recently found the courage to acknowledge.

“My mother died three months ago. It was sudden. And there is so much I wish I’d had the chance to say to her.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she puts a hand on my arm and squeezes it as if to let me know she’s only quiet because she’s listening. I blow out the breath I was holding. “And I hate this friction between my father and me. Everything else can be grand, but if we’re not, nothing feels right.”

She doesn’t say anything, and I could kick myself. I’ve put her through enough already. I don’t want to add triggering painful memories to my list of transgressions.

“I didn’t mean to dump on you like that. You should relax.”

She draws away and back into her seat. “You didn’t dump on me. I know what it’s like to feel that way.”

“I can’t even imagine that. You’re Miss Walking on Sunshine.”

Her eyes flash with something that disappears before I can decipher it. “Don’t let the filter fool you. I’m as human as anyone else.” She closes the mirror, and the car falls into darkness again.

We ride in a companionable silence, and I’m lost in my thoughts until we pass the neon-lit Tube sign of Brixton Station. We’re close to her house, but I’m nowhere near ready to say goodnight. I could talk to her all night.

“I’ve imagined what it would be like to have a conversation with you so many times.”

My heart thuds in my chest. “Withme?Really?”

She laughs at the slack-jawed surprise in my voice. “Yes.With you. I have so many questions to ask you.”