Page 130 of Antihero

“A daughter?”

“Yes.”

Her head swiveled to the passenger. “And you?”

“No.”

“A mother?”

“Of course.”

“What would they tell you? These women. Right now. About how you are acting?”

The passenger’s lips bunched a few times. His mouth was screwed to one side and he had a permanent squint in his right eye that trembled, not speed-twitching but little-kid-tic twitching. He didn’t say anything.

Behind them at the pump, the older woman looked at them, unsure what was transpiring. Then she went back to trying to figure out the credit-card reader.

Evan made sure to stay behind Anca, receding into the background. Though Anca had captured the men’s focus, he didn’t want them to think about saving face in front of another man.

Her gaze stabbed over to the driver once more. “What if someone filmed you right now acting this way? What would your daughter say if she saw you berating this woman?”

“Don’t get canceled. Not worth it.”

“Not just that. You’re not being kind. No matter if you’re mad that she is taking long or can’t speak English. You’re not being a gentleman. You’re being a bully. Both of you. It makes you unattractive, too. It makes you look petty and weak and small. Be a gentleman. It will look better on you.”

The men shifted in their boots. Their gazes had grown uncertain. The driver chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Now help her with her credit card.” Anca gestured angrily at the pump. “Go on.”

The driver lifted his hat once more, dug at the back of his head with his nails. Then he lowered it into place and walked over toward the woman, speaking softly.

Anca glared at the passenger. “You, too.”

Sheepishly, he walked over to join his friend. At first the woman recoiled, clutching her credit card to her chest. But the driver made a calming gesture with his palm and removed his own card from his wallet as an offering.

Anca strode back to the Mercedes. Evan followed her.

As they pulled out, he saw the woman nodding her gratitude to the men. The driver pressed a palm to his chest, a show of contrition, and his friend inserted the pump into the woman’s tank.

Evan drove for a few blocks and then banked onto the Long Island Expressway. They shot past crowded clusters of gray-beige buildings, and at last signs of nature broke through, oaks and red maples rising above a wainscoting of concrete sound barriers.

“Everyone is so mad these days, they cannot hear anything,” Anca said.

“Yes.”

“Sometimes they have to be slapped.”

“Yes.”

She gave him an ungentle look. “Slapped, not shot.”

“Noted.”

He switched the seat massage to hot relaxing shoulders because why the hell not. The sound barriers gave way to lush greenery fed from the recent rains, tall grassy weeds battered by wind and six lanes of assembly-line-consistent traffic.

“You don’t have to talk so little, you know. It doesn’t make you stronger.”

He said, “Huh.”