“Is that even legal?” I blurt before I can catch myself.
Mr. Tim shrugs. “It’s this guy’s word against Winkle’s. Thing is, Winkle’s run through so much of his winnings, he confessed he wouldn’t have the cash to pay if he loses the suit.”
“What a dumbass,” Joaquín mumbles.
I can feel Zan looking at me.
Mr. Tim: “I’ve said it a thousand times, but it really is good that other winner never came forward.”
“Amen!” from Lita, which surprises me (though it probably shouldn’t).
“Giving that much money to someone who can’t manage it is no better than sticking a needle of dope in their arm—”
I tune out after that.
Odd but true: on the way home after dinner, when I tell Zan I’m going to cancel our appointment with the leasing agent (fully intending to just go without him), his head whips around so fast, I’m surprised it doesn’t fly off his shoulders and land in my lap.
“Cancel it?”
“Yes? It’s pretty clear your whole family feels the ticket will ruin Ethel’s life.”
Also, I’m a mess of contradictions right now and need some space to sort things out in my head. Witnessing Zan’s…isolation, I guess, makes me wanna hold him the way I hold Jax after particularly bad bullying days at his school, but I’m increasingly bothered by the sheer speed and force with which he declared to his whole family that I’m not his girlfriend. It’s like whatever door I thought was opening between us has slammed shut, and the deeper the words sink in, the more locks I want to add to it.
That’s not even to mention this other girl. Why didn’t he mention her when we were talking about dating? Who even is she?
“We’ve come so far, though, Danger. Don’t you wanna see it all the way through?”
“We just spent an hour listening to your dad talk about how awful the lottery is.” After you made it crystal clear I mean nothing to you.
(Yes. It stung.)
“Ah, what does he know?”
“Zan, four hours ago you said the exact same thing. And don’t think I didn’t see you nodding while your family was talking.”
“Watching me pretty closely there, huh?”
Not the time. “Don’t change the subject!”
He laughs. “Look, Danger: we’ve made too much progress on this thing to give up. Don’t cancel. We’re not quitting.”
Again my questions about his motives rear up and threaten to bite me in the face. Will he really be cut off if he chooses not to work for the company? Would he really have to start from zero?
And what if I cancel and he just reschedules? He could totally do that. He knows where the house is and would only have to go back there and grab the realtor’s number from the yard sign.
Despite the mess swirling in my brain, one thing’s clear: I don’t want him continuing the search and finding the ticket without me.
* * *
—
So here we are in the Tonka a week later, staring at the green bungalow that houses Orion Realty Group.
“You ready?” Zan says, eyes all a-sparkle.
I force a smile.
He’s not playing me, is he? Pretending to like me so I can lead him right to the jackpot? I’ve been thinking about it: even if his parents did cut him off, he’s got scholarship offers and can totally get a job to support himself like the rest of the 99 percent. Most college students are broke anyway, from what I hear. It’s a part of the experience.
I glance at him again and he’s still staring at me. All gooey-eyed and excited.
What if he is playing me? What do I do?
“We’re four minutes late, Danger. Should probably go in now.”
“Oh.”
I grab the door handle and push it wide. Slide down, shut the door behind me, lean back against it, and shut my eyes. Gotta get my head back on straight.
Something runs between my eyebrows and down over the tip of my nose. Taps twice. When I open my eyes, Zan is looking at me. Visually tracing over my face.
He stops at my mouth.
Time to go. “All right, let’s do this.”
I push off from the Jeep.
* * *
—
The interior of Orion Realty Group smells like Pine-Sol and potpourri. “Welcome to ORG,” says a receptionist with skin the color of an Oompa Loompa. “How may I help you this morning?”
Unfortunately, I’m too busy trying to deduce the origin of her ochre hue—spray tan gone wrong, or flagrant lack of SPF coverage?—to answer. “Umm…”
“We have an appointment with Mr. Greg Andree about a potential rental property,” Zan says, coming to the rescue unsummoned (as usual).
She takes us in and furrows her drawn-on eyebrows. Picks up the phone on her desk, rotates away, and mumbles into it.
Zan slips an arm around my waist and pulls me close. When I look up at him—caught me off guard, won’t lie—he mouths, “Just follow my lead.”
Okay…
The guy who comes down the stairs is so bald, his head glistens, but he’s got this swagger in his step that makes me think he spent his youth man-bunned and getting into trouble.
He stops short when he sees us, and that’s when I notice how intense his eyes are. Very pale…green? Gray? Hazel? Legit can’t tell. “Wow,” he says. “You’re Reneé?”
I nod and extend my hand. “Mm-hmm. And this is…umm…”
“Gustavo,” Zan says, extending his and smiling. “Gustavo Maxwell.”
“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Greg.” He looks from Zan to me, me to Zan. “You two are younger than I was expecting.”
Zan nods. “We’re both eighteen. Graduate from high school in a couple of months.”
“I see.”
“Had a little too much fun after winter homecoming, if you catch my drift.” Zan winks and pats my belly.
Wait…
Did he just—
He totally did.
I’m sure my eyes are as big as cue balls.
Mr. Andree, though? Just grins and lifts his chin. Nods a few times. “My eldest boy is twenty-two. I just turned forty last month. You do the math,” he says.