The thing about watching Charlotte buy a car was like watching someone glitch reality. Real-life Grand Theft Auto but she had the Konami code and the rest of us were still trying to unlock cruise control.
Mom sat stiff behind the wheel of a car that probably cost more than our house and the neighbors'—clutching it like it might launch into orbit. Meanwhile, Charlotte? She was dialing numbers like she was ordering sushi.
"Corporate insurance, expedited plates, thirty-day temps," she rattled off to Diaz, who was trying not to nut in his pants. Dude was practically levitating. He'd just made more commission in ten minutes than his dad did in two divorces.
Mom blinked at the touchscreen. "What if it breaks?"
Valid fear. In Mom's world, "breakdown" meant pushing the car three miles in heels, crying at a bus stop, and praying your mechanic accepted emotional damage as currency.
