Page 41 of Unlikely
“Text her,” she groans. When I don’t answer, she adds, “My therapist says communication is key.”
I whip my head up. “You don’t see a therapist.”
“I don’t, but I bet you if I did, she would say that.”
“You know what I need?” I say, ignoring her. “I need a car.”
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea.” I watch her search for her handbag and then pluck out her car keys and lob them at me. “Take mine.”
I throw them back. “I’ve got a better idea.”
Grabbing my phone, I pull up my text thread with Remy.
I have a favor to ask.
And you didn’t just want to make the short trip to my room to ask?
I ignore him and keep texting.
Can I borrow your car?
I guess. What for?
I’m going somewhere and I need to have an escape plan in case I’m uncomfortable.
When do you need it?”
Tomorrow.
Okay. Done.
Really?
Yes. Just tell me the time and I’ll work out the rest.
“Okay,” I say, looking back up at Nina and feeling much more hopeful and put together. “I have a car and I can put the bag in there and pull it out if I need it.”
“Yay,” she cheers, clapping excitedly. “It’s ridiculous how excited I am by this.”
“Same,” I admit with an unmissable grin. I lean forward and grab a random piece of clothing and toss it at her face. “Now, help me put all this shit away.”
She glances around the room. “Considering I never see you in anything but black skinny-leg jeans and Wonderwood shirts, you sure do have a lot of clothes.”
“I also may have an issue with throwing things out that I no longer need,” I say. “Foster kid trauma—you never know just when you might need something, and if you keep it, you don’t have to ask anyone to buy you anything later.”
Nina’s expression falters. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Why should you?” And I mean the question genuinely. If you’re not experiencing things firsthand, it’s not always your default thinking to be conscientious or understand things you don’t need to. “One day I’ll let you throw out the things I don’t really need. I just can’t be here when you do it.”
“Let me do it now,” she offers.
“What?” I ask, a little startled.
“We can start and just go through them and sort them into piles,” she explains. “And then I’ll take them when I know you won’t notice.”
“That’s completely unnecessary.”
“I want to,” she says, her voice full of nothing but sincerity. “If I had a therapist, she would say this feels like the next chapter of your life and you need to embrace it.”