I follow her gaze five parking spots down to a blue Chevy Lumina.
Her hands go to her face, her cheeks a pale shade of pink when she turns to face me. “Oh my God. I am so sorry.”
“Let me guess,” I say with a jut of my chin at what is obviously her car.
“I thought . . .” She glances back at my car, then her eyes find mine again. Her face flushes through pink right into red. “I mean, what are the chances?”
It is kind of fucked up that we’d both drive beat-up blue Chevy Luminas. “So, can I assume you’re not going to call the cops on me?”
Her face scrunches. She brings a hand to it, covering her eyes. “I am so going to get fired.”
I can’t stop the chuckle. “For thwarting a potential car theft?”
She peeks at me from between her fingers. “I’m so sorry,” she says again.
I shove my hands in my pockets, look at her a long second. She’s not crazy, she’s ballsy. I like that. I don’t think she’d let anything happen to Sherm if it was in her control. “What do you say we just forget the whole thing?”
Her fair skin is still beet red when she lowers her hand. “Can you? Because you must seriously think I’m psycho.”
“Honest mistake.”
“So, you’re leaving Sherm?”
“He’s in good hands,” I say, tipping my head her direction and lifting an eyebrow.
She starts backing toward her classroom. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
My lips curl slightly before I can fully contain the smile. “The jury’s still out.”
She smiles, then turns to jog for her room.
I move toward my car and watch her go. She glances my direction just before she disappears through her door. I shake my head at my gut reaction. She’s something, all right.
When I get home, Ulie is sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, her cheek propped in her hand and her long espresso hair obscuring her face from my view. There’s still no sign of Grant.
“I never thought I’d wish I was back in elementary school,” she says, bobbing her Cheerios in the milk with the tip of her spoon. “At least Sherm has something to do.”
I drop into the chair across from her. “You could look for a job—be a productive member of society.”
She sits up straight, the boredom on her face giving way to righteous indignation as she flings a hand at me. “I was a semester from finishing Parsons, Rob! Miley Cyrus is wearing one of my designs to the Golden Globes in a few weeks. I was going to be a productive member of society. Now I’m destined to rot in backwater Florida for the rest of my life.”
Where Lee is the responsible one, Ulie has always been the drama queen. But in this case, she’s got a legitimate gripe. Of all of us, she’s the one who had the most potential to make something of herself outside the family business.
I open my mouth to tell her it’s not the rest of her life—that I’m going to settle things in Chicago, get everyone their lives back. But then I close it. There’s a very real possibility I’ll die trying, and they might be stuck here.
From upstairs, there’s a shout and thud, then Grant spews a string of expletives that I’m glad Sherm’s not here to hear. A minute later, Lee sweeps down the stairs with her hair wrapped in a towel, fresh from the shower.
“Grant’s up,” she says, pouring herself a mug of coffee. “Want some?” she asks, holding the carafe up toward me.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“What the fuck, Lee?” Grant croaks, dragging himself down the stairs in nothing but his boxer briefs. He heads straight for the coffee, elbows her aside. “You could have just told me to get up. You didn’t need to dump me on the fucking floor.”
“I did tell you to get up. Four times,” Lee says.
He takes a long swallow from his mug, grimaces, grabs a fistful of his sandy hair, which is sticking out at twelve different angles. “Okay, but why? Why the fuck do I have to get up? It’s not like anything is happening here. Or is ever going to happen.” He casts a bleak glance out the window over the sink. “How do places like this even exist? Why would anyone live here if they had a choice?”
Ulie rolls her eyes at her brother’s soliloquy and wanders to the living room, clicking on the TV.