She snorted, then pulled open her car door. “Get in and give me directions to your place.”
I did, trying to appear completely docile. But my mind was spinning with all sorts of ways I could change her mind.
I lived in a condo near the ballpark, but since all my ID and keys had been destroyed in the fire, we had to get security to let us in. Thankfully, the guard on duty knew me and was ready. Five minutes later, I was in my condo and feeling embarrassed by how messy it was. At least the dirty dishes were in the dishwasher. But I hadn’t done laundry in a while and the pile had spilled out of my closet onto the floor.
I was hastily kicking the clothing back into the closet when Ellie wandered into the bedroom, her eyes looking at everything. But when she spoke, it wasn’t about my simple decor or unwashed laundry. Instead, she smiled as she picked up a picture of me and all the guys at the firehouse.
“You’ve got a lot of friends,” she said.
“What? You mean those guys? They’re great, but we’re not close.”
“Really?” She pointed at a guy at random. “What’s his name? How many kids does he have?”
“That’s Marv, and he has three. Two boys and a girl. But—”
She pointed to a Bobcat team picture of everyone. Not just the players, but the staff, too. “What about her?”
“Sally? Sweet girl. Rough upbringing. No kids.”
“And how long have you known the security guard?”
“Not that long. He just came on staff a couple months ago.”
“But you asked him about his stock portfolio.”
I chuckled. “Yeah. He wants to make it big as a trader. He’s been studying hard and is trying to convince me to invest with him.”
“Have you?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. A little.”
She leaned back against the doorframe. “See. Lots of friends.”
I nodded, conceding her point. I knew a lot of people. It made me feel safer. If I was in trouble or needed something, there was always someone nearby who might lend a hand. Meanwhile, she kept looking around.
“But where are your family photos?”
“My dad and brother are in the one of the firehouse.” I stepped over and pointed them out.
“It really is a family occupation, huh?”
“Yeah. For generations.” Then I gestured out into the dining room. “My uncle’s firehouse photo is over there. And my grandfather’s, too.”
“What about your mom and sister?”
“Secretaries.”
She chuckled. “I meant their pictures.”
“Oh.” I flushed in embarrassment. “I’ve got one of my family over there.” I took her to the bookcase where, tucked between the last Harry Potter book and the first Dresden book, was a picture from the church photo album. All five of us, all cleaned and polished—my sister before she turned bitchy, my brother after he started wrestling, and me before my growth spurt.
She picked it up and smiled. “Look at you, just a little guy with a cowlick.”
I brushed down my hair, even though that wild curl had long since disappeared. “Everyone looks stupid as a kid.”
“No,” she said. “I think you were pretty cute.” She set down the picture, but I could see speculation in her eyes.
She knew. I didn’t know how, but it was as if I could read her mind. She knew that I was ashamed of my family. That I avoided them as much as I could. I didn’t have more recent pictures of them, because every picture I had was tied to some disaster. The picnic before Dad got drunk and crashed his car. The pizza night celebration where my uncle called my aunt “a stinking whore” before she walked out on him. Then there were all those baseball tournaments or team wins where my parents were so drunk by the end, they couldn’t walk.
