The Uber driver kept glancing at us in his rearview mirror like we were a wildlife documentary he couldn't look away from. Fair enough. Two teenagers climbing into a Honda Civic outside a Long Island mansion at noon on a Saturday, one of them carrying a stuffed unicorn the size of a golden retriever and the other sporting a bite mark on his neck and lipstick residue he apparently missed despite two separate warnings, probably warranted some visual investigation.
Iris hugged the unicorn to her chest and named it Gerald before we hit the expressway.
"You have lipstick on your chin now too," she said without looking up from her phone.
I flipped the visor down and checked the mirror. She was right. A faint smear of Cassidy's whatever-brand-that-was trailed from the corner of my mouth to my jaw like evidence at a crime scene. I scrubbed it with my thumb.
"You could just stop kissing people," Iris offered.
"I could also stop breathing."
"That's dramatic even for you."
