“Regan, I’m so sorry that happened to you,” she says softly, taking my hand in hers.
“Yeah, me too. So, you can see why the possibility of having feelings for someone who has Dean’s reputation might be causing some issues.”
She nods, and I can tell that she’s fighting the urge to ask me something else. I dip my chin to allow her to say whatever it is she wants to say.
“What else is stopping you?” Leslie asks. I crook my head to the side. Was my cheating story not enough? “There’s something else besides your past stopping you. What is it?” she continues.
Nothing escapes these two, it seems. But that’s why they are both my closest friends. “I’m worried if I get into Cup and we are seen together in public as more than just rivals, that people will think I slept my way to the top.”
Cindy nods at the admission, like she can see where I’m coming from. If I’m dating another driver, that’s all anyone is going to talk about. Not my talent or anything else that matters, but that I just fucked Dean to get to the top.
“Can I be honest?” Leslie asks, and I gesture for her to continue. “People are going to think what they want about you, hell, about me, too. We are women in this male dominated sport. There are people in that garage every weekend who still think women don’t belong there. No matter what we do, no matter what we accomplish, it’s going to be criticized and picked apart. The best thing you or I can do is flip them the middle finger and do what we want, and do it better than they ever could.”
Wow, this is not the pep talk I thought I’d get. Hell, she’s the one who needed the pep talk when I got here. Maybe that speech was as much for her as it was for me. I shouldn’t care about this, I don’t know why this is the thing that bothers me so fucking much.
It’s so stupid that I have to be the one who thinks about this. I’m sure none of this has ever crossed a man’s mind. Ever. Guys like Dean can bring a different girl to each track, and no one bats and eye, but if it gets out that I’m sleeping with another driver—all hell is going to break loose.
“Enough about me,” I start, changing the subject. “From what it sounds like, you are back on the market. Let’s get you some phone numbers.”
We laugh and order one more round. I do my best to try tokeep my mind off Dean, but I’m not as successful as I’d like to be.
When I arrive home that evening, the house smells amazing–garlic, oregano, and other spices. Dad must have made his famous spaghetti and meatballs. My stomach grumbles just thinking about digging into a big bowl of it.
I stride into the kitchen, and he already has the small table set with plates, forks, and the steaming pot of spaghetti in the center.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask. This meal only comes out with some kind of big news or if I ask really nicely.
“No occasion. Just wanted a meal with my daughter. Is that a crime?” Dad asks, motioning for us to sit.
“No, of course not.” I take my usual seat, and although it’s just the two of us now, there’s still a third chair at the table that was Mom’s seat. I stare at it and think back to the meals we used to have here. When Dad was on the road, she’d help me with homework, have game nights. My eyes tear up at the memories. I miss her. The anniversary of her death is approaching, and probably why Dad made this meal.
Dad dishes out the food on each of our plates, and the silence is loud. I know there is some sort of bomb that is going to be dropped, and I’m trying to think of something—anything. I open my mouth but everything I want to say falls to ash on my tongue.
“Ready for Atlanta?” he asks, digging into his food.
“I think so. I finished setup and virtual testing with the team today,” I say, taking a bite of pasta. It’s as good as always. More silence as we eat, just the sound of forks on plates while we twirl our pasta.
“I wanted to talk about the anniversary of Mom’s death. I was hoping we could go together to go see her.” He asks me every year, but I always refuse to go. It’s too much, too overwhelming. Dad goes without me, and I always feel bad, I just can never bring myself to go with him.
“I’ll go with you, Dad,” I find myself saying. I meet Dad’s gaze, and shock and joy flood his features. Something is telling me that I should go. To be strong enough to face the feelings that come with visiting Mom.
“I know she’d love to see you, Regan,” he says with a bright smile.
“I know.” My heart skips a beat before I continue. “I’m sorry I haven’t gone. It’s…” I trail off, not able to continue what I want to say.
“It’s alright. I understand. I’m happy you’re coming now.” He takes another bite of pasta before speaking again. “Is there something else going on? I feel like your mind has been somewhere else lately.”
Dad is nothing but perceptive about everything. He has always been able to tell when something is bothering me or on my mind. I was hoping he wouldn’t say anything, but I should’ve known better than that.
“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I say, pushing around the food on my plate. Talking to Dad about boys has always been awkward. I know he understands that I’m an adult, but he still sees me as that little girl, crying in his arms at the hospital after we left Mom’s room for the last time.
“Okay. Just know you can talk to me about anything. I’ll never judge you about anything. Unless you tell me you like pineapple on pizza, then I don’t think I can help you.”
I huff a small laugh. “I know. Thanks, Dad.”
FORTY-ONE
DEAN
