We wrap up lunch. She also promises to come for dinner, especially when I tell her what I’m making. It’s an old recipe, a simple one with heavy cream and butter and garlic and expensive grated parmesan. When we were younger, it was something I only made when I’d saved up a little from a couple good paychecks. It’s just not the same without good cheese.
From there, I stop by the grocery store. I grab all the necessary ingredients and head out to my car to put the bags in the back seat. As I do, a kid takes my empty cart for me with a smile. I smile back.
It really is amazing how different people are here than in New York.
But my smile fades as I see a black car with tinted windows driving by slowly. No one drives particularly fast around here, but this car is going at a snail’s pace.
Panic fills my chest. I hurry to get in the driver’s seat, locking the door as I do.
After passing the grocery store parking lot, the car speeds up. I swallow hard.
Even after I’m home and cooking, I feel uneasy. That prickling sensation at the back of my neck has followed me in. Like I’m being watched. Like I’m back in the penthouse, with a guard outside the door and enemy cars circling and?—
The door slams.
I scream.
“Jesus!” Bella yells. “It’s just me!”
I manage to save the sauce pan, but it’s a close call.
“I know,” I lie. “Sorry. It wasn’t because of you. I just burned myself a little, that’s all.”
I go back to stirring, acting like I didn’t just leap out of my own skin.
“Ooh, is that alfredo?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“Dope. Is it okay if Oliver comes over for dinner? I already told him he could.”
I turn to face my little sister, who is wearing fishnets and a short plaid skirt and a cut-off top and?—
And no bra.
“Who is Oliver?” I ask. “And aren’t you cold? You look cold.”
“My boyfriend?” She frowns like she’s trying to figure out where I might have left my last marble. “I told you about him.”
“You did?” I’m positive she did not, but I don’t say that. “Seriously, Bella. You need to wear a bra. Look, it’s all hanging?—”
“Oh my God!” She moans and throws her leather bag on the counter. “Yes. Last night. I texted you and told you I’m seeing someone. And Iamwearing a bra. Not everyone wears push-ups, you know. We don’t all put the girls on display.”
My mouth pops open in offense and I look down at my chest. “I’m not wearing a push-up.”
“Not now. But you do wear them. Or you did when you were working for the suit and tie.”
I narrow my eyes at her, but she just proceeds to steal a piece of garlic bread from the warmer. Then I choose a hill to die on. Which is pretty hard, considering the two hills I’m staring at right now. “So, this Oliver kid. Did you meet him at school?”
“Nope,” says, hopping up on the counter to sit down. “The roller rink. There’s a fucking roller rink here, did you know that? Like, how vintage is that?”
“Don’t say fucking,” I tell her.
“Why not? You do.”
“I’m older,” I argue. “So you met him skating?”
Another dramatic eye roll. I’m about 0-for-3 right now, but you try keeping up with a hormonal sixteen year old. “No. He works there.”
