“Look,” she said, “you’re more sober than I am, aren’t you?”
I regarded her owlishly and said, “Fifty-fifty.”
She giggled again. “Look, you drive the car. What we do, we drive to my sister’s house and then my brother-in-law picks up the car and drives us back.”
“Is your brother-in-law going to like me?”
She made a raspberry with her lips.
“What’s his name?”
“Dover Fulton.”
“Meaning he won’t like me?”
“Probably not. He likes him. You will, won’t you?”
“What?”