“Nice?” she whispers like an echo. “I suppose it is.”
“How old is he?”
Her lips twist for a second. “Twenty-eight. Do you have siblings, Flynn?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Interesting answer. Tell me about your parents,” she says.
“Can’t. Well, my mom had long, black hair.”
“Your mom died? Or she no longer has black hair?”
I shrug. “She disappeared when I was three.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. I guess. But if she left me, how great of a mom was she?”
“Who raised you?”
“I did.”
Callie turns toward me, but I don’t look at her. Pity is my least favorite emotion.
“I mean, there were others. People who were supposed to be responsible for me, but I think they just wanted the money. Ya know, those who think fostering kids is a good side gig?”
“Sorry to hear that. I know plenty of good people who have fostered children, and the stipends don’t cover everything, but they don’t expect it to.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t experienced that.”
“What?”
“Good foster parents.”
She doesn’t respond, but after a few miles pass, she touches my wrist with her freakishly icy hand. At first, it startles me, but then I realize she’s trying to still my hand—my fidgety drumming of it on the steering wheel.
“Sorry,” I say.
“I need a calm muse.”
I need to search up the meaning of muse. But calm? No. I’ve never been calm. What does that feel like? I’m not even a calm sleeper. My roommate says I talk in my sleep.
I park along the street on the opposite side of the old brick building with residential lofts on the second floor above the gallery. Then, I hop out and cross the street. When I turn, Callie waves from the car, fingers fluttering.
“Crap,” I mumble, looking both ways before jogging back across the street and opening her door.
“Manners matter, Flynn.” She smirks, stepping out of the car.
I have many scars on my body as reminders to have good manners. If all she gives me is a sarcastic grin, I’ll take it.
“Sorry,” I mumble, for the millionth time.
She hooks her purse over her shoulder, saunters to the stoplight, and presses the button to cross. There are no cars coming from either direction. Does she ever break the rules?
The walk light illuminates, and she looks both ways (twice) before crossing the street. When we reach the gallery, I open thedoor for her like a gentleman. She grins, and I try not to, but then she playfully pokes my stomach, and it tickles, so I can’t help myself.
“Mrs. Rawlings, how nice to see you,” a woman with short, wiry blond hair says while walking toward us. She’s dressed in a one-piece outfit which looks like a tuxedo, but with shorts. And her shiny black heels are so pointy she could use them as ice picks.
