“This has nothing to do with the car,” she shot back.
“No,” I said evenly. “It’s about control. And you don’t have it anymore.”
Silence followed.
Then, bitterly, “He’s old. He’s not thinking straight.”
“You don’t get to say that just because he didn’t choose you.”
The line went dead.
A week later, Lucy appeared at my apartment. She looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, hair thrown into a careless bun. She stood in the doorway for a long moment before speaking.
“You turned him against us.”
I stared at her. “You took something that didn’t belong to you.”
“It was just a car, Natalie.”
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