ROBBIE WAS CONCERNED about my mental state. He said, “Babe, I’m concerned about your mental state.” He put his hand on my face and made me look at him—it was one of the most sincere gestures he’d ever made. I wished he weren’t wearing a backward hat when he did it. I wished he looked more like someone’s father, with gray hair around his temples and gray eyes haunted by the war and a mouth like a tightrope stretched between the towers of his cheekbones.
