The car sat in my mother’s driveway like it had been rented for a photo shoot. Red paint, clean tires, tinted glass. Ryan stood beside it with his arms crossed, waiting for somebody to react.
I parked my twelve-year-old Civic behind him and listened to him explain the engine, the sound system, the forty-seven thousand five hundred dollar price tag. Then he told me where the money came from. Grandma’s inheritance. Ninety-two thousand dollars, turned into leather seats and a trip to Cancun.
Dinner was pot roast and vanilla candles and my mother calling him hardworking. Afterward he walked me out to the back porch and asked me to cover his insurance. Three hundred fifteen a month, just until a promotion that was never going to exist. I said no. He called me perfect like it was an insult, then went inside.
My mother’s text came that night. Help him or don’t come for the holidays.
