“So what’s your story?” she asked, shouting over the wind and the radio, which was too loud, too tinny. He turned it down.
“My story?” He laughed. “I’m not the one who was hitchhiking through the Sonoran Desert.”
She smiled self-deprecatingly. “Yeah, there is that.” She hung her head back so that her dark hair billowed out the window. “I was at an artist’s colony—the Desert Muse.” She smiled again, bitterly, it seemed. “Or the Desert Ruse, as I call it. Ever heard of it?”
He shook his head.
“Yeah, well, it’s where a bunch of grad students hang out with their professors for a week and study the fine arts. You know, like how to out-snark the other pimply kids ... or f**k your professor.”
He glanced at her sidelong, raising an eyebrow.
“Okay, so maybe not f**k him. But definitely give h
