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Her sharpened features soften slightly, and she waves her hand as if erasing my words. “What are the tattoos on your chest?”

My throat pinches. I glance down and see my shirt has shifted and green tendrils of ink are peeking out of the neckline. I tug at the straps before looking at her.

“Wildflowers,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because I like them.”

“Do they cover your whole chest?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes drop to my chest again before returning to my face. She notices.

“Why?”

I swallow hard but don’t look away from her and definitely do not look at Bo, who is still as a statue on his chair. Last night I managed to keep his hands distracted in other ways—he never once touched my chest. But now, in this shirt and this proximity, there might as well be a spotlight shining on me.

“Because even ugly things can be beautiful.”

Then, stretchy silence.

Finally, she nods.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Bo asks, seemingly stunned as he turns to look at her, taking the stupid toothpick out of his mouth.

“You heard me, Bo, don’t make me repeat myself,” Veda says sharply, glaring at him.

I stifle a laugh. Despite her age, adorable home, and declining use of her hands, the woman keeps everyone on their toes with the way her mood switches directions like a boomerang.

She turns to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I eat breakfast at eight if you want to join.”

“Sounds great,” I respond, relieved, stacking up the papers that nobody cared to look at.

“And Birdie?” Veda says. “No more of this.” She gestures at all my unappreciated materials on the table. “The other old farts might like that, but not me. Just show up in clothes you don’t mind getting dirty.”

I nod and pack up my things in silence. I don’t look at Bo, not as he intensely stares at me or when Veda sends him to get something for her from one of the shelves. I only hurry to get out of there as fast as possible.

After a quick and cheery, “Bye, Veda, see you in the morning!” I’m out the door, taking my first full breath and scrambling to my minivan.

In the driver’s seat, the key is too big for the ignition. Like something in the weird-smelling house made it swell to the point of uselessness. I’m stabbing at the side of the steering wheel maniacally and to no avail.

I hear the front door open and close, the deep, “Birdie wait!” but I just keep stabbing my key and not going anywhere.

Then Bo is at the driver’s window pressing palms on either side of it looking at me with an unreadable expression.

“It’s not what you think,” he says, key finally clicking into place.

The engine starts at the same time my head turns to face him.

“You have no idea what I think!” I snap, shifting the gear into reverse.

He doesn’t move from his position. “You lied about your name. Where you lived!” he argues.

The laugh that bubbles out of my mouth is a frozen sound devoid of humor.