Page 22 of Halstead House

Her only reply was to huff out a loud sigh and shake her head.

“You could have warned me,” I murmured.

“Would you have come?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied honestly. “I think those kinds of movies are good for some people, just not me.”

“You can stop pretending you have any idea of what’s good for you.” She snorted. I was amused, but before I could respond, she glanced over at me. “I think it’ll probably be kind of fun. The show, I mean.” She steered the car off an exit that lead us onto the bridge. “And if it’s not, at least you can say you tried something new.”

I thought about that. She was right. I had been making an effort to say ‘yes’ a lot more lately. “Okay. I’ll try to have an open mind.”

“Good.” She smiled and reached out her hand. “Now, can you hand me the bag of chips that’s in the glove box? I’m snacky.”

“What are the chances of you being able to focus on driving and eat those chips at the same time?” I hedged.

“Our chances ofyouarriving alive are higher if you hand me those chips.”

I handed her the chips and tried to relax. Pretending to be on an amusement park ride helped. A little. I’d always gotten sick on those rides.

By the time we arrived I had made some firm decisions about asking more questions next time I was invited to go somewhere. Also, I’d be doing the driving, grandma car or not.

Ana pulled her little red sports car into the parking lot of a beach-side movie theater called The Lux—and I almost grinned at the irony. It wasn’t luxurious at all. We both got out, stretching our legs and taking in the view. It didn’t seem to matter that I had now been on the Gulf Coast for almost two weeks; the scenery still felt new. I loved the tang of the air and the way the humidity made my skin feel soft. The constant warm breeze was a miracle to me after living my entire life in a cooler eastern seaboard climate.

I turned away from the view to see Ana watching me from the other side of the car. I pulled a face and said, “I see you’ve delivered me alive, as promised.”

“All part of the therapy, my friend.” She cheerfully grinned.

“Something about staring down death?”

“Yep.”

We fell into step, Ana’s flip flops slapping as we followed a handful of other people in through the front doors of the theater. The lobby was large and light, decorated in a surprisingly bold color pallet of reds, oranges, and creams.

It didn’t take me long to spot the enormous poster board picture of a muscled guy with dirt smears on his face wearing a tank top and snarling as he looked down the barrel of a gun. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“That the show?” I asked.

“Yep.” Ana made a popping noise with her lips and headed to the ticket counter.

“I think I’ll probably hate it, even with the open mind.” I followed slowly.

“Yep.”

True to my words, I hated the show. Luckily Ana hated it too. Which meant we found ourselves spending the entire second half of the movie fighting the giggles and making fun of it. Which obviously ended up being really fun. So, in the end, Ana thought she’d won this round.

On the drive home Ana insisted on trying out some of the sweet moves—her words, not mine—that the stunt drivers had pulled. To get me to stop screaming she made me say five nice things about the movie. But the only thing I could come up with was that the guy’s biceps were drool worthy. I had to give credit where credit was due.

“They’d have been even better if he’d ever washed them. The dirt ruined the view,” Ana said with a serious face as she zipped between traffic.

And I laughed the whole way home.

The day would have gone down as a surprise favorite in my book had it not been for the phone call from Mother just as I’d reached my bedroom at Halstead House that evening.

“Hello, Mother,” I answered as I crossed the threshold and closed the door softly.

“Thank goodness you answered. I needed to hear your voice. It’s been nearly two weeks that we’ve been apart, and I’m so lonely that I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I’m worrying all day about where you are and how you’re doing.” Mother’s crisp way of speaking was a shock after the time spent among the slower, softer, Southern way I’d become familiar with.

An image of her sitting alone at her dinner table flashed through my mind, and guilt prickled behind my eyes. “I’m doing just fine,” I replied in deceptive calm.

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