She looked like she hadn’t slept all night. She had Einstein hair and parentheses of frown lines between her brows. “You know it’s not just the car,” she said.“Of course it’s not just the car. The whole stepfamily thing…It sounds like a nightmare. Wait,” I said. It hadn’t hit me before, not really. You could have arguments and new sports cars and mad leavings to Nevada; you could even use the word divorce and not mean it. “Are you actually leaving him?”Shaye stopped the little brush in midair. Her toes were half done; the poor blank ones looked like sad orphans next to their flamboyant friends. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do anymore. I mean, we’ve also got a business together now. I feel like such a failure.”“You’re not a failure.”I’d dragged an old vacuum cleaner down the hall, and now it sat beside me, a too-short dance partner, same as David Selby in the seventh grade. I hunted around for a plug. Words like commitment and vow knocked wrongly around my head and threatened to spill.
