He waited, like he expected me to continue. When I didn’t, he asked, “So?”
“So, I didn’t want to get pulled over.” I glanced at him, found him staring at me. “Hey. Don’t give me that look. You’re not the one operating a motor vehicle illegally.”
“It’s not illegal to drive without a license. It’s illegal to drive if you have no license.”
Sending him a quick glare, I readjusted my hand placement on the steering wheel. “Is that some kind of riddle? If I say your name backward three times, will you drive?”
Abram barked a laugh, drawing my attention. I found him looking at me with glassy eyes, his hand over his mouth, hiding his smile while shaking his head. His shoulders shook with quiet laughter.
“You are . . .” he started, stopped, sighed, then chuckled. “I should be mad at you.”
“You’re mad at me?” I felt equal parts indignant and contrite, which was a weird, new combination for me.
“But I’m not. You are so much different than I thought you would be.”
Unsurprisingly, that had me gripping the steering wheel tighter and flailing for something to say that might sound Lisa-like.
But then I stopped flailing.
If my actions and our conversations over the last few days hadn’t made him suspicious, then he wasn’t going to be suspicious. At all. In fact, now I had a suspicion Abram wasn’t ever going to be suspicious of me.
Conclusion: No need for me to worry about acting Lisa-like, because—to him—I was her.
Which, I conceded with a good measure of uneasiness, when she arrived, she’d have to act like me.
*
I’d never been to a suburb before.
Driving through Abram’s parents’ neighborhood was like visiting a movie set. The houses all looked remarkably similar, the front lawns were perfectly maintained, US flags flew from flagpoles, wreaths hung on doors. I even spotted a few picket fences.
Honestly? I loved it.
“You grew up here?”
“Yes.”
“What do your parents do?” I asked, making a left onto another street that looked just like the last street. Everything was so delightfully tidy.
He didn’t answer immediately, so I glanced at him. He looked uncomfortable.
“What?” I split my attention between him and the street. “Do they run a grow house?”
Abram coughed a laugh, now staring at me. “No! My parents don’t run a grow house!”
“This neighborhood reminds me of that show, Breaking Bad. Of course, we’re in Michigan, not New Mexico, and the house styles are different, but the neighborhood has a similar feel. Have you ever watched it?”
“No.” His tone held amusement, but also maybe defensiveness. Or something like defensiveness.
“It’s a good show. The chemistry stuff is spot on,” I said distractedly. A house with a picket fence, a rooster weather vane, and a towering flagpole with a US flag snagged my attention. The outside was painted white, the shutters were trimmed forest green, the door was red. A summery-looking wreath with yellow flowers was affixed to the door. It probably had a welcome mat.
I want to live there.
“How would you know about the chemistry stuff?” he asked, also sounding distracted.
Instead of being flustered or worried that I’d made a mistake by mentioning chemistry, I saw his question for exactly what it was: a way to avoid answering my earlier query about his parents.
So I said, “Mona knows chemistry stuff,” which wasn’t a lie, but rather a true statement meant to deflect, and then asked again, “So, what do your parents do?”
Abram released an audible breath, shifted in his seat, and then finally said, “They’re retired.”
“Retired?”
He nodded.
“What did they do before they retired?” I lifted my eyebrows expectantly. When he didn’t answer, I suggested, “Run a grow house?”
“No.”
I peeked at him, found him grinning and trying to hide his grin by covering the bottom half of his mouth with his hand, his elbow propped on the window sill. He was giving me an amused side-eye.
Finally, he answered, “My dad was a general contractor and my mom ran the business part. They had my sister late, and me even later.”
“Oh.” I made a right. “How late?”
“Mom was forty when she had me and dad was forty-seven.”
“Oh.” I made another right, scanning the scrolling numbers on the side of the mailboxes. We were four houses away. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
That’s right. Gabby had said something about him being three or four years older than us.
“So she’s sixty-four today?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” I slowed as we approached the address, studying the two-story yellow house.
I found myself swallowing against a pang of longing as my gaze greedily noted the details of Abram’s childhood home. Navy shutters, white drapes, maroon door, and a wreath of pink and white flowers. No picket fence, but it did have a stone path leading to the front door which was lined with abundant rose bushes, all fully in bloom.
Forget that other house. I want to live here.
“Is this why fate brought us together?” I mumbled another of my anytime-phrases, the one I typically reserved for inanimate objects I desired.
“What?” Abram’s question brought my attention back to him.
“It’s so pretty.”
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Your parents’ house. It’s so pretty.”
His eyes narrowed further, moving over me in a way that felt apprehensive, like he didn’t believe me, or he thought I was making fun of his family, or he was waiting for me to add a but, or a for a plebeian’s house, or something equally judgmental and pretentious.
Shifting my gaze back to the house, I allowed the envy in my features tell the truth of my words; tall yellow rose bushes flanked the porch; adjacent were several shorter bushes with lavender-colored blooms.
“Are those Blue Moons?” I lifted my chin toward the purple flowers. I didn’t know all the different varieties of roses, just a few of my favorites: Princess Anne, Boscobel, Blue Moon, but Eden was my absolute favorite. They smelled like how heaven must feel.
“I honestly don’t know. But my mom will.” Abram seemed to hesitate, and then mildly surprised me by placing his hand on my bared leg, drawing my gaze back to his and causing an immediate swirling heat low in my stomach.
But not alarm. Interesting.
When I looked at him, I found his eyes were uncharacteristically—insomuch as I knew his character—somber. “Hey, one more thing. And promise me you won’t freak out.”
I lifted my eyebrows at the irony of the situation: here I was, trying to ignore how very, very nice the heat of his hand felt on my thigh and he was asking me to not freak out. Meanwhile, I’d usually be freaking out about an uninvited hand on my leg.
But I wasn’t. I liked it. And I was just barely holding the door closed on all sorts of odd, inappropriate hopes. Like maybe he’d pull the hem of my skirt just a little higher, or reach underneath . . .
Pushing those thoughts back behind the closed door, on a rush I said, “I can’t promise you I won’t freak out until you tell me what I’m not supposed to freak out about.”
His lips quirked to the side. The left side. My gaze dropped to the dimple I felt certain would make an appearance. I wasn’t disappointed, even though it was promptly hidden again.
“Okay, makes sense.” He breathed in, he breathed out, his fingers flexed on my leg and I swallowed thickly. “Here goes: my sister, who is probably already here, is a journalist.”
My eyes cut to his. All inappropriate heat and hopes extinguished. A journalist?
“Pardon?” My single word was sharp.
“My sister, Marie. She’s an investigative journalist.” He seemed to be watching my reaction closely. “Leo said you guys—your family doesn’t like journalists.”
An investigative journalist? Of the exposé variety?
I didn’t freak out, outwardly. I freaked out inwardly. “What does she investigate?”