There's a saying somewhere about narrow roads and enemies and it seems pretty fucking accurate.
A familiar blue sedan slows to a stop beside me, and Andrew leans across the passenger seat with a frown etched deep into his forehead as he rolls down his window.
It's pointless to pretend like I don't notice, so I stop walking and wait to see what he has to say.
"What are you doing?" he asks sharply, glancing around like we're in some spy movie. His nostrils flare as he scans the area.
I adjust the heavy backpack straps digging into my shoulders; Sadie and the cat meander around my feet, completely oblivious to his presence. "Heading to the laundromat. What does it look like?"
As far as retorts go, it isn't a good one. Carrying a few backpacks doesn't scream laundry run at all. If anything, it looks like I'm on the run. But it's not like I'm about to start treating Andrew like a bosom buddy or anything.
Even if he seems to be on my side.
