“Yeah.”
Her fingernails tap against the large screen on the center console, the interior a combination of black and dark red. It’s a little over a thirty-minute drive when she presses the green button to start the route, pulling out of the parking spot and up the bumpy track to the gates.
I drum my fingers on my thigh, nervous in the awkward silence. I could do with a guidebook right about now.How to Make Small Talk with the Daughter of a Notorious Mob Boss For Dummies.
“How’s your family?” I try.
“I’m supposed to report anyone who asks about my family as suspicious.”
“Alright, then.”
Silence resumes, Belladonna’s icy gaze constantly flicking to the mirror to make sure we’re alone.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my leggings, puffing a slow breath from my cheeks.
I just cannot cope with silence when I’m nervous.
“How’s Raigmore?”
“Fine.”
“Do you have a favorite … area? Of medicine?”
“Neuro.”
That makes sense, somehow. I can imagine her doing that. “Is that what you’re choosing?”
Her jaw tenses, lips press together. “No. Emergency medicine.”
“Oh.” It’s not often I see emotion from Belladonna, but I sense it now. I don’t pry further, even though I’m desperate to be distracted from whatever may happen in thirty minutes’ time.
“It’s better for the family business,” she says, eventually.
“Emergency medicine?”
“Yeah. I’ll work as a doctor for the family.”
I wonder if she has much choice.
She clamps her mouth shut as we turn onto a less overgrown road. I take it as a hint that I am not someone she wants to open up to.
“How’d you get your hair so glossy?” I try.
“Genetics.”
“So, you’re telling me I shouldn’t be smearing flax seeds and bananas and coconuts on my head like that YouTube video told me?”
She bites down on a smile, glancing over at me. “Making granola on your head won’t fix shit.” She rubs the muscle in her shoulder and winces. “The beauty industry capitalizes on the stuff you can’t change. That’s why it’s still an industry.”
She may see me as an irritating fly, but I think my attachment issues and I are starting to see her as a big sister.
“Why don’t you like me?”
“You looking to do some self-improvement, or something?”
“I am,” I say, genuinely.
She laughs, rubbing her hands together like,Where do I even start?“I think you’re immature. And that’s probably harsh, because I think I was like you at your age, too. But it’s still annoying. And you’re selfish, ignorant to the way your actions affect others.”
