Chapter 2

Derek recovered first, because Derek always recovered first. He had a knack for it, a way of shaking off an unsettled feeling like water off a windshield. He straightened his blazer, glanced at the coins on the floor, and addressed Arman as though Cora were a piece of furniture that had wandered in from the cold.

"Well," Derek said, "I didn't come here for the floor show. Priya and I are interested in the GT5." He gestured at the black hypercar on its platform. "Three million dollars, as I understand it. We'd like to see it properly. Without, ah, distractions."

Arman's face cycled through several expressions and settled on professional neutrality. He was a salesman, Cora understood, and a salesman's first loyalty was to the sale. He had made a calculation the moment Derek spoke: the man in the navy blazer was the buyer. The woman in the oatmeal coat was a problem to be removed. Cora watched him make that calculation and felt a strange, calm distance open up inside her. She had been underestimated her whole life, and she had learned that the feeling was information. It told her exactly who everyone in the room was.

"Cora," Derek said, with a little wave of his fingers, "you can show yourself out, can't you? Or does someone need to call you a cab?" He turned to Priya and added, in a lower voice that was still perfectly audible across the marble, "She used to take the bus everywhere. She was always very proud of that."

Priya smiled. It was a muscle-memory smile, the kind a woman gives when she has decided to enjoy something because her companion is enjoying it, even if she is not sure why. "How long ago was that?" she asked.

"Four years," Derek said. "We lived together in a one-bedroom in Boyle Heights. She had a plant on the windowsill that she talked to. A fern, I think. Named it something ridiculous — Fern, probably." He laughed at his own joke. "She was always very careful about money. Folded her receipts. Kept a budget in a little notebook. I used to tell her, that's a waiter's habit, Cora. You don't need to act like you're one payday from eviction."

Arman had moved toward the platform, and he was not looking at Cora anymore. The sale was his entire field of vision. He was already speaking in the low, reverent tones that luxury salesmen use, describing the engine, the aerodynamics, the limited production run. The black car sat on its platform like a sleeping animal, and Derek and Priya walked toward it as though they already owned it.