32. Tinted Windows

Laughing, I shove Doug’s feet out of my face. 

“Keep that stank to yourself!” 

“Rude,” he chuckles. But he moves his feet. 

I keep a wary eye on the offenders as I scroll through Netflix’s offerings. 

Doug leans back on the couch, lounging, feet tucked close. 

For now. 

“I remember when Netflix was essentially Blockbuster with delivery,” Doug says, watching me click through options. 

I snort. 

“Yeah, a DVD delivered right to your mailbox. All so we didn’t have to drive a few minutes down the road.” 

“Convenience is king,” Doug drawls. 

“God forbid we live without corporations telling us how much less effort we could put in.” 

“And only for the low, low price of twenty-five dollars a month.”

“Well, we’ve come full circle back to cable.” I pause on Knives Out. “Just a more expensive and irritating version. How’s this?”

Doug shrugs. “I’m down for a rewatch. I’d say this or Bad Vegan again.”

“Knives Out today, Bad Vegan tomorrow?” I stick out my hand. 

Doug gives it a firm shake. “You got a deal.”

The family on-screen is reeling from the reading of the will when my phone rings. 

I might ignore any other ringtone, but never this one. 

I snatch the phone off the armrest of the couch and start toward the kitchen. Doug looks after me, remote raised as if to pause the movie. 

I motion for him not to bother and swipe to answer the call. 

“Hi Miranda,” I say, notepad and pen at the ready on the counter. Weekend calls from Miranda usually mean someone’s dead, dying, or about to wish they were.

“Are you available tomorrow afternoon?” 

I blink. That’s Miranda’s voice, but since when does she ask if I’m free? 

“Um, yeah, I mean, yes. What can I do for you?” 

“The girls have gotten it in their minds that they need to say a proper thank you for the books. There’s a showing at eleven-thirty tomorrow, and we’ll do a late lunch after.” 

My brain scrambles to decode the Miranda-speak. Before the pause stretches into uncomfortable territory, I have it worked out. 

“Alright,” I agree. “What theater should I meet you at?” 

“Roy will pick you up.” 

“Oh, ok then I’ll need to send him my new address. I moved back in Decem–”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Miranda dismisses. “Be ready by ten-forty-five. Traffic will be miserable, no doubt.” 

“Ok, I’ll see you then,” I reply. 

Miranda’s already hung up. 

“What’s that look on your face?” Doug asks as I sit back down. 

“Caroline and Cassidy want to say thank you for the Harry Potter books,” I say slowly, like I’ve forgotten how to process verbs. “They want to… take me to a movie. And lunch.”

Doug’s eyebrows nearly reach his hairline. 

“Well, now that’s something.” 

I let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Sorry, I need to rain check on Bad Vegan.”

Doug just grins, reaching for the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. 

“Oh, I have a feeling this will be way better than Bad Vegan.” His smirk doesn’t change as he throws a few pieces into his mouth. 

I roll my eyes at his teasing. 

“The girls just want to do something nice,” I say. “It’s not like it’s a date, or anything.” 

Doug just smirks, popcorn crunching like little bombs. 

***

I should have known my winning streak wouldn’t last. 

In the two weeks since I hired Lark, she hasn’t committed any unforgivable sins. Win. 

I’ve now had three She-Ra nights with the Priestly women. Win. 

Even Miranda seems intrigued. Just two days ago, she compared Lark to Madame Razz. As usual, she’s not wrong. 

And of course, I was invited on this outing. Win! 

Looking down at my sheets this morning and seeing blood stains that would fit in with a horror movie set? Not a win. 

It feels weird to have tampons in my Louis Vuitton bag, but not as weird as my stomach rolling and making me want to curl up in the fetal position in the shower with lava hot water pressing down on me. 

But there’s no way I’m cancelling. 

This is what ibuprofen is for, I remind myself, washing a few pills back with a gulp of water.

It’s not enough to ease the fire in my lower back, or the low thrum behind my knees, but I don’t care. I’m not missing this. I’d have to be bleeding out from my eyes before I cancel.

Which, honestly, feels like a possibility.

I get a text mid swallow. 

Roy’s here. 

Ready or not, it’s showtime. 

I head straight for the front passenger door and swing it open—

Only to come face-to-face with Miranda Priestly.

Of course she’s already there. Legs crossed. Hands folded. Expression cool enough to drop the temperature ten degrees.

I freeze mid-step, one foot on the curb, the other dangling like it hasn’t received the update that we’re in a crisis.

“Oh my god—sorry!” I blurt, nearly catching my own ankle in the door. “I thought—”

I don’t finish the sentence. What am I supposed to say? I thought you'd be in the back with your children?

This is Miranda. Assumptions are useless. 

She doesn’t blink. Just tilts her head, eyes glinting like cut glass. “Good morning, Andrea.”

Before I can melt into the pavement, a voice chirps from the backseat. 

“Come sit with us, Andy!” Cassidy calls. “We saved you a spot!”

Miranda smooths her skirt with two fingers, her gaze still locked on mine. Not exactly judgmental, but definitely not not judgmental. Like she’s watching a toddler try to parallel park.

I nod, too fast, like my head’s detached from the rest of me.

Then I gently close her door like it’s a bomb I’m afraid to set off and circle to the back.

There’s a brief scramble as the twins reconfigure—because obviously both of them want to sit next to me—and then I’m squished between them, a sacrificial meatball in a tween sandwich.

Cassidy grabs one arm. Caroline’s already mid-Harry-Potter-fact-drop like she’s been storing this energy all morning.

And me? I’m just sitting here, trying not to think about the fact that I almost climbed into Miranda Priestly’s lap like a Golden Retriever on Xanax.

Off to a flawless start.

Thanks, tinted windows. Really nailed it.

“I can’t wait to see Emma Watson,” Caroline says. “Did you know she went to Brown University? And she’s spoken at the UN! She’s like, so smart.”

“Caroline, darling,” Miranda chimes from the front seat, “You’re articulate enough not to need filler words. If she’s smart, say she’s smart.”

I jump in before the eye roll hits. “When I was your age, I couldn’t go two words without saying ‘um.’ One summer, my dad made me do a push-up for every one.”

Cassidy gasps, scandalized. “Every time?”

“Every single one,” I nod solemnly. “By the time school started again, I wasn’t saying ‘um’ anymore—and a couple of boys were jealous of my triceps.”

The twins dissolve into giggles, and from the front seat comes a low, unmistakable chuckle. Warm. Unguarded.

I glance up just in time to catch Miranda’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

She’s still smiling—barely—

But then it’s gone. The warmth folds in on itself, replaced by cool detachment like it was never there at all.

At the same moment, a cramp twists in my gut, sharp and sudden.

Okay. Ouch.

The girls keep talking, thankfully. Rattling off trivia and opinions, asking what house I’m in (Ravenclaw, obviously), and pulling me into the swirl of their excitement.

By the time we pull up to the theater, I almost forget I’m in pain.

Almost.