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and curled toward his neck. Tina was stretched out on the bed behind him, sound asleep again. She looked like an emaciated mummy without her wrappings. “Get the hell out of here. We want to take a shower,” he said.
    Good luck with that. Daisy bowed and swept her arm toward the bathroom, indicating that it was all his. She started walking down the hallway, but stopped and turned back to Bobby. “Does mom and dad realize Tina’s been spending the night here?”
    Bobby snickered. “Yeah. Maybe. Don’t say anything to them or I’ll break your mouth.”
    “Wow. You always take politeness to a new low. It’s such a pleasure to live with you again.”
     
     
     
    Daisy was trying to wrangle the store’s vacuum cleaner back into the small utility closet when Mary hurtled through the back door. The woman was as subtle as a hurricane and stored the same amount of energy as one. She dropped her collection of overstuffed tote bags on the floor and turned to Daisy, “Please tell me you haven’t been here all night.”
    “Nope. Just a few hours.” Daisy held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
    Mary planted her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow. “And why are you here so early?”
    “I like hanging out with books more than my brother and his trashy girlfriend.” Daisy sighed. How much longer could she live under the same roof as him? Her tolerance level was already dangerously low after only a week. “Is that offer to stay on your couch still open?”
    “It’s negotiable.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “You can sleep on my couch, but only if you apply to the artists’ colony.”
    “I don’t belong there. I’m not an artist . . .”
    “Then my couch is not available.”
    “Come on. Are you serious?”
    Mary draped her arm around Daisy’s shoulders. “Absolutely. I can see you are fed up with staying with your family and I’ve been told my couch is very comfortable to sleep on. I know you belong at the artists’ colony and I have no problem using blackmail to get you to apply.”
    “You’re ruthless.”
    “I am.”
    “I’ll think about it.”
    “Wrong answer, unless you secretly like hanging out with your family every . . . single . . . night.”
    Making strange hats and scarves didn’t make her an artist. Although the colony would be a fun place to live. Much better than bunking with her parents or a low-life scumbag like Gary, but she would feel like an impersonator trespassing in a world where she didn’t belong. It’s not like she had ever wanted to be an artist. When she was a little girl she dreamed of being a zookeeper. In high school, she just wanted to graduate and find a job so she could live on her own. How had she gone from living in a dump with a cheating boyfriend to being pressured to apply for an apartment in an artists’ colony within a week’s time? Karma was weird.
    That evening Daisy stared out the bus window. She tried to keep her mind occupied by counting the number of restaurants along the route, but the diversion wasn’t working. The day had been exasperating and strange. Mary had made dozens of copies of the colony’s application and scattered them throughout the store. Everywhere she turned, there was an application sandwiched between two romance books or taped to the mirror in the bathroom. Somehow Mary had also organized another “Wear Daisy’s Things” day among the store’s employees. Brightly colored scarves, too warm for summer hats and devious smiles were the theme for the workday.
    Daisy’s cell phone chirped in the depths of her purse, again. Gary was drunk dialing her every five minutes, leaving voice mail messages begging her to come back. He was hungry and lonely, in that order. She didn’t answer any of the calls and only listened to the first couple messages. Interacting with him would be a stupid mistake. She wasn’t that masochistic.
    The bus slowed as it approached her stop. She gathered her bags and scanned the nearby parking lots for