I should've known better than to think I could just show up without an interrogation.
Carl might be sixteen, but he's got the instincts of a goddamn detective.
"I thought I'd take you to lunch before PT," I say. "Somewhere good. Your choice."
His eyes narrow. "You're acting weird."
"I'm being nice."
"Exactly. That's fuckin' weird."
"Once again, watch your fucking language. And why can't I do nice things for my brother?"
Carl studies me for another long moment.
I can see the gears turning in his head. He's weighing whether to push harder or let it go.
Finally, he shrugs. "Fine. Whatever. Let it be noted for the record that I still think you're being weird. But the sandwich I made sucked anyway."
He wheels toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the hook on his way there.
"But if we're doing this, I want Taqueria El Fuego."
I groan. "Absolutely not."
"You said my choice."
"I meant somewhere good."
"It is good. Best al pastor in the city."
