Page 25 of Myla: The Hawthornes

“She likes doing it,” I pointed out, turning to look at her.

“And I love her for it,” she said in exasperation. “But Idohave money.”

“Not the kind of money Myla’s parents have,” Frankie joked.

“Just because they have money doesn’t mean she needs to pay for my tchotchkes,” Lou shot back.

“I’m kidding,” Frankie replied, glancing at her in the mirror. She shot me a look. “Run interference for me, too.”

“No problem,” I said breezily, knowing my mom would see right through it.

Mom didn’t just throw money around. My parents lived in the same house that I’d grown up in, and it wasn’t anything fancy. They actually lived pretty modestly. Heather Hawthorne just liked to treat her kids when she spent time with them, and she considered Lou and Frankie her kids along with me and my brothers.

When my parents were young, my dad got a wild hair and bought a run-down house to fix up. He’d sold it, bought another, and suddenly a side business had taken off. He worked at the club’s garage full time, but he liked remodeling houses and he was good at it, so he just kept doing it. He’d kept some of the houses as rentals over the years, but he’d sold most of them—all for a profit, except for the ones me and my brothers had bought from him.

Frankie honked the horn as we pulled into my parents’ driveway.

“Thank you,” I said, watching the front door. “If I have to go inside to get her, we won’t leave for half an hour.”

“Their house is a little like a time warp,” Frankie agreed. “It never feels like we’re there very long until we step outside and realize it’s been hours.”

“Half the time I fall asleep on the couch,” Lou said, leaning forward between the seats.

“It works for you,” I assured her. “It goes with the homeless waif thing you’ve got going.”

“I don’t look homeless,” she protested, smacking me.

“Not a modern homeless person,” I replied defensively, leaning away from her reach.

Frankie nodded. “Like a Victorian waif. All pale and skinny and ethereal.”

“And they’reunhousedpeople,” Lou snapped.

“Poor choice of words,” I conceded. “I apologize.”

“You’re more like a fairy,” Frankie said conciliatorily.

“What, like Tinkerbell?” Lou huffed incredulously.

“No, like that one inLord of the Rings,” Frankie said, waving at my mom through the windshield.

“There are no fairies inLord of the Rings,” Lou argued.

“She means Arwen,” I said, watching as my mom threw her huge purse over her shoulder and sauntered toward us. “She’s an elf.”

“Oh, okay, I’ll accept that,” Lou said, sitting back in her seat.

“My girls,” Mom called as I rolled down my window. “I’ll sit in the back with Lou!”

“That’s good,” I replied as she opened the back door. “Because I wasn’t going to give you my seat.”

“Cute.” She wrinkled her nose before smiling. “Thanks for picking me up!”

“Anytime,” Frankie said, putting the SUV in reverse. “You ready to hunt for some treasures?”

“Yes. I’ve been looking online—”

“Mom’s the queen of social media shopping,” I cut in.

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