“Depends,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on Bell’s. “Do you think our detective likes to skate?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kira
“I’m fine,” I say as I toss the last of the eggs into the trash bag Nix is holding open.
And I am. I feel much better—despite the fact that we now have zero food and no funds to replace it.
“You fell asleep in therefrigerator,” Nix says as she ties the bag. “You were using the bread as a pillow.”
“I was hot.” I shrug, as if it’s no big deal.
“Kira.”
“Nicole.”
I feel bad that she found me like that, I really do, but I woke up, didn’t I? I’m fine. I’m standing. I’m breathing. Honestly, I feel refreshed. I just needed a good night’s sleep. So what if it was in the fridge?
“You need to go to the doctor,” she says.
“For what?” I scoff. “I have my medication.” I motion to my pills on the counter, slightly cringing when I notice they are still scattered, the bottles turned over.
Nix gives me a look like that proves her point.
“Stop.” I snatch the bag from her. “You’re going to be late for school. You know I can’t drive you. I haven’t had the truck looked at.”
“I’m not walking. I have Caleb’s car.”
“What?”
She bites her lip, failing miserably at hiding her grin. “Yeah, it’s parked out front. Caleb’s ditching today, but he didn’t want me to walk, so he dropped it off for me.”
“He left you hiscar?” My mouth hangs open.
There’s no way. She said his dad just got him that car. He left her a brand-new car to drive? I drop the trash bag and stomp down the hallway to look out the front window.
And yep, at the edge of our weed-infested yard, there’s an ostentatious red car parked at the crumbling curb. It gleams, practically begging to be boosted in this neighborhood. I gape at it as I hear the front door, and seconds later, Nix saunters into view outside, book bag slung over her shoulder.
Dipping down by the tire, she comes back up and dangles a shiny key fob for me to see, smirking shamelessly before sticking out her tongue.
I give her the finger.
She laughs, head falling back like a beautiful villain, and climbs into the driver’s side. I look away before worry can grip me. She hasn’t even driven more than a few hours since getting her driver’s license. There hasn’t really been much opportunity—seeing as the truck barely runs.
I’m happy for her.
I’m worried.
Fuck.
Where is the line between being a parent and being a sister? Part of me wants to tell her she shouldn’t be driving someone else’s expensive car, and the other part wants to be excited with her.
But I suppose it’s always been this way.
We could never indulge together because one of us always had to be grown-up. When she would beg me for the cheap makeup at the grocery store, I would have to tell her no, eventhough I wanted it just as badly. Or when a late-night marathon came on, I was the one who made us turn off the TV. Someone had to be the adult.
For once, I would just like to have some fun with my sister.
