I adjust my cap, knocking my mug. Coffee splashes across my desk, nearly scolding me.
Hastily, I grab my wet wipes from my drawer, which Rosie replenishes every time they get low, while side-eying my potential visitors.
They’re hovering, which means they’re planning something. Is this another ambush? I drop the dirty wipe in the bin. There aren’t as many wipes in there as a couple of weeks ago. I’m less anxious about staying in a new Miami hotel and haven’t checked my temperature in two days. My counsellor is making progress.
“Hey,” Senna says, rubbing her tattoo.
My family strides in, and the air thickens. I rush to open awindow to breathe and let everyone’s germs out. I wish Rosie were around to manage this lot.
“There’s my boy,” my mum says, nearing me. I take a step back, and her face falls.
“Sorry, it’s just that…” I trail off.
“Mum, I told you he isn’t hugging yet,” Senna whispers.
“But—”
Connor peeks in my doorway. “Senna, Jacs needs you. She’s texting Billy Nister’s brother, and apparently, my chat-up lines about going down under aren’t the seduction she wants.”
“You’re the worst,” she huffs.
I hide my chuckle as Connor winks at my dad. “All right, Mum and Dad.”
“For the last time, we’re not your parents, and you’re not our son-in-law,” Dad snaps.
“Yet,” Connor replies with a smile.
Dad gives Connor the famous Jim Coulter death stare that enabled him to run a racing team for nearly thirty years until he reluctantly let Senna take the helm.
“Love you, too, Papa Coulter,” Connor adds. “I adore you, Mumma Coulter.”
My body shakes as I try to control my laughter.
My mum’s eyes twinkle. “I love you more, Connor.”
“That’s enough Connor for everyone,” Senna says, kissing my parents. She turns to me. “I’ll catch up with you later about my Miami concerns.”
With Connor and Senna gone, it’s like the joy is sucked from the room.
I resist the urge to itch my neck where curls of my dirty blond hair niggle me. I need a cut, but I’m not ready to show my scars to a stranger, and the last time I shaved it, I was left with weird patches.
My parents sit on the other side of my desk. I can’t avoidmy dad’s pinched stare or how my mum’s face drops. I’ve done this to them.
“What are you two doing here?” I attempt breezily, but the scratch of my hair makes it difficult to focus.
“You don’t answer our calls about visiting you at home. Your mum worries about you.”
“We both worry,” Mum qualifies.
“How are you?” I ask.
My mum offers a fake smile. “As long as I get trips out, I’m happy. Your dad’s okay.”
“I’ve taken up golfing, but there’s no adrenaline. I miss the smell of a racing car after it comes off a track to a screaming crowd.” Dad glances at Mum, who raises her eyebrows. “But your mum rightly says I can’t go to all the races anymore due to my heart.”
And just like that, I’m back in the hospital, fighting a virus, as sweat covers my shaking body, and they tell me my dad had a heart attack and could die.
I sit on my hands to stop them from trembling or reaching for the sanitiser. I close my eyes briefly to force away the intrusive thoughts.
