“Fine,” Scarlett said, pulling herself up off the floor. “I’ll get you another one.”

As she headed up the creaky basement steps, she heard Eric say. “You know what? I should head home now. Have to get up early.”

She immediately stopped and dove down to do some completely unnecessary maintenance on her flip-flop—just enough to give Eric time to catch up to her. This only bought her a few seconds more with him, but seemed worth the effort.

“So soon?” Mrs. Amberson said. “Well, see you tomorrow. We’ll be in touch with the new rehearsal location. Scarlett will call. Are you all right there, Scarlett?”

“Fine!” Scarlett said. She’d pulled the thong from the center hole and was now desperately trying to shove it back in again. She had done such a good job of sabotaging her own shoes that it was looking like she might have killed them and would have to go upstairs for a new pair. She hopped up a few steps to get out of Mrs. Amberson’s view and managed to get the thing loosely in place enough to walk, as long as she kept her toes wrapped around the thong. It made her hobble, but she was more or less ready when Eric was behind her.

Her mother was at the computer at the front desk, still looking at the basement door with a look of great skepticism.

“I have to go to the deli and pick up tea for Mrs. Amberson.”

“More tea?”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Martin,” Eric chimed in. “My scooter’s up the block. I’ll walk her down, ma’am.”

The idea that Scarlett had to be escorted up and down her street at eleven at night was ridiculous, and the “ma’am” was too strange to comment on. But it was hard to argue with that honeyed voice and the manners from some other century.

“Oh…thanks, Eric. That’s nice of you.”

Scarlett shot out the door before her mother could read anything from her expression.

“You look like you’re in a hurry,” he said, as they stepped outside. “And is your foot okay?”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “I’m just trying to get away from seeing my brother making out with my boss. I think it will save me some money in future therapy.”

Eric responded with a gratifying laugh.

“She does lay it on a little thick,” he said. “I can see what you were saying about your first day. She kind of comes out of nowhere. Literally. Out of nowhere.”

“Welcome to my life.”

The deli was sadly all too close, and Eric’s scooter was chained to a tree next to it. He was the owner of one very old but still extremely stylish black scooter. Its obvious age and many dings made it seem so much better than the shiny new ones.

“Online ad, six-hundred bucks,” he explained. “Another gift from the commercial. It conks out a lot, but I’ve been able to keep it running. Faster than the bus, you know?”