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I opened my mouth to argue. But she had me there.
“You’re like a wolf cub, see,” she went on after a few more minutes. “And you know, they can go either way.”
“Oh, yeah? What do you know about wolves in the city?”
“I know one when I see one. Just like I know some wolves run with the pack. But others, sometimes they have to be on their own. Sometimes, they become lone wolves. And once that happens, they’re done for.” Lea tipped her head. “But you’re not a lone wolf yet, Michael Scarrone. You came to stay in a den. You let me in. There’s hope for you yet.”
Suddenly, my mouth was very dry. I grabbed my water glass and chugged the entire thing, if only to avoid her searching expression. What the fuck did she want me to do? To admit she was right? To say that deep down, I wanted a place, a home, a family like hers? That if, by some miracle, Lea Zola would be content to cook for me and boss me around and make a place like this for me, I’d consider myself the luckiest man alive?
Well, if that’s what she wanted, she could wait all fuckin’ night. I wasn’t going to waste my time on fantasies that were less likely to be real than Santa Claus himself. The dude on my wall was more likely than me to achieve the American dream.
“So what did you do?” she asked, without a fucking iota of shame, as I shoved another bit of pasta into my mouth. “Why did they put you away?”
I practically choked. She watched, clearly amused, while I pounded my chest and somehow managed to swallow.
“I—did you really ask me that again?” I croaked. “You put the patron saint of thieves on my wall, for Christ’s sake.”
Lea shrugged. “Lucky guess, and it was only twenty-five cents at the Salvation Army. Listen, I figure my nonno already knows, but I want to hear it from you. He wouldn’t let you stay here if you were a rapist or a murderer or something like that, so I’m not worried that it’s really bad. You can let him tell me, or you can tell me yourself. I’ll find out either way.”
She had some nerve; I had to give her that. She didn’t look away. Not once. Those green eyes stared right at me, waiting, waiting for me to answer.
Come out with it, they said.
Fuck it. I might as well.
“I stole a car,” I said.
“What kind?”
I scowled. “A 1994 Honda Civic.”
“EX? LX?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You want to know the trim of the car I stole?”
She shrugged, like she’d asked about the weather. “It would affect the resale value. Don’t forget, I basically grew up in an auto shop. Call me curious.”
I sighed around another bite of pasta while she watched me chew, waiting not-so-patiently for my answer. “It was a three-door hatchback, five-speed coupe DX, with a hundred and thirty-five thousand miles and a faulty transmission.”
I got up without waiting for her response. Honestly, I didn’t want to see the disappointment on her face. People want to believe that if you’re going to go to prison for something like grand larceny, the price of the thing you stole is comparable to the price you pay for stealing it. Then they find out you lost everything for the most common car in America. Suddenly, you’re not only dangerous—you’re also stupid.
Letting the ceramic clink a little too hard, I stacked her bowl on top of mine, then carried them to the sink and started doing dishes.
It was no good, though. Less than a minute later, Lea popped up next to me and started putting away the leftover food in Tupperware that apparently now filled the second drawer under the counter. She’d made enough pasta for an army. I’d be eating that delicious sauce for a week.
“A ninety-four Civic worth maybe three grand seems like a crappy car to risk your life for,” she said.
I grunted. Couldn’t argue there.
“So?” she asked.
“So, what?”
“So, why’d you do it?”
“Because I felt like it,” I snapped, splashing my shirt with soapy water in the process. “I was bored one day, and I decided to take a joy ride. Saw the car, wanted the car, took the car. Simple as that.”
She didn’t say anything. In fact, she stopped moving altogether, abandoning the leftovers to lean against the counter and stare at me with her arms crossed.
