Ransome is looking over his schedule. His hint of a smirk has faded a little. I can’t read his mind, no matter how hard I try. It’s only the small things, like his lips microscopically turning down a touch or the furrow of his brow or the twitching of his razor sharp jawbones, that tell me something is his mood has shifted.
“That’s good,” he says. “Tell them I said hi.”
I snigger at that. “They don’t even know who you are,” I say.
To which Ransome responds with a simple, “Mm.”
When the clock hits five, I head across town to my old house. As I drive from bougie high rise apartments and five-million-dollar estates to middle class brick homes and, finally, the neighborhood that has become the deathbed that is my childhood home, I can’t stop thinking about Ransome’s reaction.
Does he not like me coming out here?
Is it because he knows how shitty it is and he’s worried about me?
Or is it that he’s worried someone important or nosy will see me here? Someone in sunglasses and a hoodie, armed with a camera owned by TMZ?
Whatever it is, doesn’t matter. Because at the end of the day, I am not doing this for me. I’m not even doing it to remain close to Ransome, no matter how good the benefits clause has been lately.
I am doing this for them. I am doing this so that one day we can all live somewhere better, away from the past that burns itself into our everyday lives like a rash that won’t quit.
I park the company car in the drive and lock it, a habit I picked up years ago when my car was broken into in broad daylight. The blinds in Bella’s room part, and all of two seconds later, she comes running out the back door.
“Amara! You didn’t tell us you were coming over!”
She envelops me in a hug and tears sting my eyes. I love that, even in her teen years with all her piercings and dark makeup and Doc Martens and fishnets, she still hugs me the way she did when she was little. Like I am her safe space. Like she never wants me to leave.
“You smell good,” I tell her.
“New shampoo,” she says. “It pays having a sister with access to the good shit. This one’s for dyed hair. I bleached it again.”
“I see that.” I pull away enough to look at her copper hair. “So what color are we doing this time?”
“I’m thinking silver.”
“Silver?” I repeat, my skepticism making me sound forty years old.
“Yeah. All the kids are doing it. It’s so slay.”
Slay. Right.
“Well, if you’re going to have new hair, you might need new clothes,” I tell her, and her face lights up.
“We’re going shopping?”
“I was thinking about it. Maybe the mall? We can grab dinner too. I am craving crappy Chinese food.”
“Hell yeah! Let me go grab my phone and my bag. Oh, and I got some new eyeliner! You have to see it.”
As Bella disappears inside, I turn to see Gianni tinkering around in his car. I can’t help but smile. I decide to go see what he’s up to.
“Looking good,” I say, and Gianni jumps, almost hitting his head on the hood. He has a look to kill until he sees that it’s just me.
“Oh. Hey, sis.” His tension easing into a lopsided boyish smile, the same one he’s always had. I’m not sure where he gets it from. Our dad never smiles. Not that I remember.
“Sorry if I scared you.”
“It’s alright.” He rubs the nape of his neck with a greasy hand. “I’ve just had an issue with people sneaking up on me recently, that’s all.”
“The car looks amazing, G. For real. I can’t believe this is even the same hunk of metal you brought home a year ago.”
