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Not the Gilroy family’s charity case.
I feel like me.
“I think you—”I catch the quick snap of Grace’s head as it turns to aim a worried look behind us. “Google says…” She turns to look at me, brow furrowed like she can’t decide if she wants to say it. Finally she sighs. “You missed our turn.”
“What did I say about Google?”
She sighs again. Her brow crumpling like a paper bag. “Yes, but I think that we should at least—”
“Do you trust me?” I say, barely sparing her more than a quick glance while I slide and maneuver my way through the sea of cars and buses jockeying for position—probably because I’m sure she’s going to laugh in my face and tell me no.
She doesn’t answer me and for a second I think that’s my answer. That I’m right. That she doesn’t trust me, she’s just too scared or maybe too nice to say so.
And fuck me if it doesn’t sting like a bitch.
Then she closes the app on her phone and tosses it into the cup holder in the center console between us. Turning toward the window again, she drops her chin into her hand with a sigh. “If I’m late to this thing, you’re buying me lunch.”