“Pull yourself together, Casablancas. Your kid could’ve died.” He sneered. “While you’re at it, take her back. I’m not a babysitter.” That was all it took for me to officially and finally lose it. Not the eight-hour drive, punctuated by ten pee-pee stops, sponsored by Starbucks caffeine and suspiciously cold gas-station hot dogs. Not the fact that Jimmy had died on me ten feet from the parking garage. Not that I was broke, jobless, single, and raising a kid, even though half the time I felt like I was still one myself. And not even the realization he was going to be my neighbor, because Row
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