I managed to keep my woo-girl daydreams to myself —despite my longing to share them with the world — but Zolt did not have that self-control.
He didn’t have a filter for his feelings. I hated how much I liked it.
And hated how I didn’t trust his acting skills to hide his feelings in public if we were to ever become more.
“Our parents are married,” he said. “But that doesn’t change how I feel about you at all. It doesn’t have to be the end of the road.”
Yesterday, I should have prompted Nagyi to see how she’d react if Zolt and I were together. If she would forgive me, then that was fine. Imre could think what he liked — he wasn’t entitled to my life or relationships when he hadn’t had one with me for so long.
My biggest hurdle was Zolt’s mum. She was so lovely, I wanted her to like me. Jordan’s mum and I used to go for a coffee every Sunday. I needed to be liked, even if it meant always wondering what could be.
Or if it meant navigating this in the most cautious way possible — thinking of every different option, every possible reaction.
Everything may not have changed for him, but it had for me.
He’d lied. He should have told me we’d be related by law.
Liking him had softened me. I hadn’t stomped my foot the way I should’ve — or the way my sister would’ve.
“We’re adults, Fia,” he continued. “And this isn’t some one-night stand. I know it’s only been a couple of months, but I’ve never been more certain of anything. They want the best for us. And you’re the best for me and…” He couldn’t bring himself to say he was thebest for me.
And I was glad he hesitated.
“Why do you still race?” I asked, sliding my hand back to my fork and cutting into my pancakes.
He blinked, his brows pulling together. He opened his mouth and closed it before eating another mouthful, then washed it down with a gulp of orange juice and sighed. “Because sometimes, without racing, I don’t feel alive.”
My chest caved in, my shoulders jerked forward. I’d wanted to steer the conversation into less emotional waters.
Not send it into a storm. My eyes stung, and I cleared my throat, looking down at what was Imre’s palacsinta. This man, with all of his arrogance and stubborn ways, had cooked me my favourite meal. He’d arranged for my favourite snacks and clothes to be here.
And he didn’t feel alive?
He didn’t feel like life was meaningful?
The lump grew in my throat.
And I knew then I was fighting a losing battle.
We finished our pancakes, then we went through the report. I asked him to back up some of the medical terms he knew with examples, and now and then, he would floor me with a really eloquent bit of knowledge about how certain conditions still impacted him. He said he could feel the bolts in his collarbone and spine, and that he could feel stiff for days.
But when it came to the mental side — PTSD, depression — he wasn’t willing to give details, and I wasn’t willing to push.
When I asked how his mum reacted to the crash and if she was there a lot, he started to scrub our breakfast plates harder, glaring at them. All he said was, “She was always there. It’s how she and Imre met. In the hospital. Sorry to bring him up.”
But his voice was tighter than usual, and I didn’t pryanymore.
Instead, we took the dogs for a walk into the forest surrounding his house and spoke about everything that wasn’t racing.
The forest was quiet. Light dappled on the dry floor. We were protected from the world by a bright green canopy, keeping all our problems out and all of our secrets in.
If I kissed him here — if I told him how I felt — maybe we could bathe in our happiness and leave our relationship glowing amongst the trees in the golden sunlight.
But if I kissed him, there was a likelihood I wouldn’t stop.
He led the conversation, asking me about university and my family — strictly following rule number one, though, not mentioning Imre — and asking for every little detail.Who were your best friends at university? Do you still talk? Who did you live with? Whatwere your professors like? How was your hospital placement?
But they weren’t interview-style. They flowed. He listened.
