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“Whatever you say, Brady.” She sounds bored. Or maybe disappointed. I’m not good at reading girls.
“Maybe you should talk to someone about that,” she says after a minute. “You seem like you’d be a nice boyfriend if you could get your head out of your ass.”
“Thanks, Pines,” I say. “I’ll take that under advisement.” I’m going to see a shrink because I don’t want to settle down? I don’t think so. That’s a personal choice, not a disorder.
“I saw a therapist for a long time,” she says.
“What for?”
“Anxiety. Mild depression. My parents were into some bad shit.”
“You mean your foster parents?”
She hesitates, then seems to make a decision. “No. My real parents. They had money. I used my cash allowance to pay for therapy. They thought I was using it for clothes.”
“Did it work? The therapy, I mean.”
“Yeah, it helped a lot,” she says. “My therapist gave me strategies for managing my anxiety. The occasional Xanax helps, too.” She turns toward me, and I get a quick glance of cold, calculating eyes. “TMI, right? Shrinks, meds… Maybe you’ll back off now.”
“You’re telling me this so I’ll think you’re looney tunes and leave you alone?” What a piece of work. “Burning buildings, Pines. You think a little anxiety and a shrink are going to keep me away?”
“I think whatever sense of self-preservation that’s kept you alive this long is going to keep you away.”
“Well, forget it.” I slow down as we approach her place and pull into the driveway. “What about you? Tons of boyfriends, right?”
“No,” she says, and a sad smile briefly touches her lips. “I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
“Why not? You get all clingy when you like someone? Go homicidal when you PMS? Make your dates watchDawson’s Creek?”
“Stop!” she says, a reluctant smile in her voice. “Of course not.”
“Why wouldn’t a girl like you ever have a boyfriend?”
Instead of answering, she looks out her window and starts playing with the end of her braid.
I turn her face toward me. It’s dark in the car, but I can see the sadness in her eyes.
“Does it have anything to do with why you’re running?”
She stares at me for a minute before answering. “I’m running because I betrayed my family,” she finally says. “I did something they’ll never forgive.”
“Date a Protestant?”
She snorts a laugh and covers her mouth with her hand, like she’s shocked at her reaction. “This isn’t funny!” she scolds. “How can you make me laugh about this?”
I shrug. Big, ugly truth? I love making her laugh.
Her smile fades, and she shakes her head. “I can’t do this to you, Brady. A normal life isn’t in the cards for me.”
I’m not in a joking mood anymore. I started off with a goal and a plan, and now I’m…lost. And she seems to be right in the same spot she was when we started.
“What kind of normal life do you want? A fourth-floor walk-up in Queens? ’Cause that’s what you’ll get on a public interest lawyer salary. You know that, right?” Why do I sound so pissed off? Better question: why do I feel so pissed off?
“Yeah, if that’s what it takes to be free,” she says, meeting my scowl with sad, glittering eyes. “I’ll take a fourth-floor walk-up in Queens.”
“You have no idea what it’s like not to have money.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “How would you know that, Brady?” she says in a tone that makes chills run down my spine.
