Nine
“WHY DO YOU GET TO DRIVE?”
Helen looks at me from the driver’s seat. “Two reasons. One, I made the reservation before I left Myerton. Two, you drive like an old woman and I’d like to get to Bellamy sometime before nightfall.”
I cross my arms and look out the window. I feel her hand rub my shoulder.
“If you smile, I’ll get you a cookie.”
“I don’t want a cookie.”
She pauses. “Milkshake?”
I look at her over my shoulder. “Chocolate?”
“Any flavor you want, sweetie.”
My heart flutters. She hasn’t called me sweetie in twenty years.
I catch the look in her eye. From that, and the flush in her cheeks, I can tell she didn’t mean to.
“I mean, ahem,” she shifts uncomfortably in her seat and grips the steering wheel. “Chocolate’s fine, if that’s what you want. Just stop pouting.”
I sit
