He pulled Michelle up on the bed, positioning himself between her legs with a pillow under her ass, and he tried to do good work, to apply himself, but kept almost dozing off. Strange, all his amped excitement now transmuted into sleepiness, and she was mewling a little but seemed sleepy herself. He looked up to gauge her response. Pleasing her—apparently another thing he had failed at.

“It’s okay,” Michelle said with kindness, maternal kindness.

She knew Carter. She saw him, the middle-aged man currently crouched on her sateen coverlet, chest hair sopping with vodka sweat. Those all-seeing eyes comprehended everything, understood exactly what kind of fuckup he was. It didn’t seem to faze her.

He lay back beside Michelle. It was peaceful here in her bed. Jennifer, wherever she was, would be furious. Electric with rage. Throwing his shit on the lawn, the whole performance. They’d probably get divorced. There would be no trip to Sayulita this summer, Jennifer tanned and frisky. No Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Why didn’t this bother him? He felt strangely calm.