He hunkers, to get closer, and very seriously says, “I’m almost a decade older than your friend group. I’m your boss. You don’t like me.”
Oh. Well. Look at that. He came up with three excellent points why I would mind. We could turn them into a three-point essay. If we didn’t really, really,reallyneed to go.
“Get in the car, or don’t. You have three seconds.”
And three seconds is all he needs, because it takes about two seconds for him to reach my passenger side and the third to fold himself into it.
“The chair should…” I start as he reaches for the lever.
It does not go back. This is as far back as it goes. Oh. Okay.
So his legs are just fifteen feet long.
Cool. Cool, cool, cool…
“Should we take your vehicle?” I ask.
“We’re going to be late,” he says, strapping himself into my plastic Barbie car. His hair is touching the ceiling. I didn’t know my car had been made for children before now. What a thing to learn.
“Right.” I worry my lip. “But I feel bad. I didn’t know my car was a tall person torture device.”
His expression softens, and my chest squeezes. “Mirabelle. I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Well…if he’s sure.
So I can stop looking at him, I turn the keys and back out of the driveway.
?
“You don’t need to buy me a car,” I say, adamantly, as Mr. Anders and I make our way from Jeffry’s apartment complex’s visitor parking lot up the stretch of hill leading to his building.
“No, no. I would never buy you anothercar.” Humor teases the corners of his eyes as he makes a point of stretching his poor limbs. “I’m thinking more like…a monster truck. A pale blue one. With clouds all over it.”
“That would be inconvenient to shop with. Who knows how I’d find parking?”
“I think you just drive over anything in your way. Also, after having been inside yourtwo-doorvehicle, I’m not sure how it fits the groceries.”
“The trunk is spacious.”
He stops short, so I look up at him and the surprise riddling his face. “What?” I ask.
“You mean you don’t keep any bodies back there?”
I stare at him.
He references me, from my flowery hair scarf down to my lacy white apron. “You just seem like the serial killer type.”
Despite myself, I smile. “Do I now?”
He begins walking again. “Absolutely. I’m shocked to learn you don’t have limbs alphabetized in your trunk.” He holds out his hand. “By the way, those brownies look heavy. Mind if I eat them all for you? It’ll make the dish lighter.”
“You’re in an odd mood tonight, aren’t you?”
“I’m nervous.” He combs his fingers through his hair. “I’ve never been to a modest gathering like this before. And I have a feeling I’m neither going to be an expected nor a welcome presence.”
If that’s the case, why’d he agree to come?
I really don’t understand this man.
