We keep staring at each other. I want to ask what’s wrong—it’s obvious that it wasn’tphysicalillness that made her go home early today—but I refrain. If she wants to tell me, she’ll tell me.
If she doesn’t, I’ll find out in another way. She looks miserable, and I hate it.
Fuck it.“Are you okay?”
“I will be.” She nods. “I got a tough call and knew I couldn’t be professional for the rest of the day, so Ifigured it’d be better to wallow for a bit at home than risk fucking up at HQ.”
“Right.”Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask—“What happened?”
Stop fucking pushing!
Her grip on the door tightens until her knuckles turn white. Her next breath is more of a shudder, and her eyes brighten with tears.
Shit. “You don’t have to tell me,” I say. “I just…” I frown. “I don’t like seeing you unhappy.”
She offers a wobbly laugh. “Since when?”
Since I realized that I want to be the reason for your smile instead of your frown. No clue whenthatbullshit happened, but what’s done is done.
“I figure there’s a higher chance we’ll work out if I pull back on being a dick,” I point out.
“Fair.”
We resume staring at each other. She no longer looks like she’s on the verge of crying, which is a relief.
“That looks like a lot of soup.” She nods at the huge bag. “Do you want to…” she clears her throat. “Come in and share it?”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re letting me into your apartment now?”
“I’m sure it’s not much compared to yours, but it’s livable.”
I frown. “Is that why you didn’t let me in yesterday? Do you think I’mthatmuch of a snob?”
She doesn’t reply, and I pretend that doesn’t hurt. I haven’t exactly given her a reason to think I’m anythingbuta stuck-up prick.
I’m getting a taste of the consequences of being a dick, and it sucks exactly as much as I thought it would.
She opens the door wider, and I step inside. Her apartment’s not terrible, but itistiny, old, and clearly poorly maintained by the building. But I can see her decorations and style everywhere, which makes it homey. The cement floor is mostly covered in a blue carpet, with a matching blue royal sofa against the back wall. There’s a pretty antique coffee table in front of it, and several large, factory-style windows behind it. In the corner is a desk. The front of the room is a modest kitchen area, with a four-burner stove, oven, fridge, and breakfast bar. There’s a circular white dining table not far from it.
“Cute,” I comment. “Where should I set up?”
“The dining table.” She waves to the white table. “I’ll grab bowls and silverware.”
A few minutes later, we’re both digging into a late lunch. I try not to stare at her too hard or for too long, but seeing this usually-composed woman so unwound and soupsetis disconcerting. I feel personally responsible for fixing it.
“Thank you,” she says softly, once we’re done. “This was really nice of you.”
“You want to talk about whatever it is that sent you running from work?” Jesus, I just can’t keep it in, can I? “You don’t have to tell me, but it might make you feel better.”
She sighs, staring down at her empty bowl. “My mom is…” she clears her throat. “She has dementia. It’s progressing rapidly and pushing the late stage. She was diagnosed when I was about 16, and it was slow in the beginning, so she encouraged me to go off to college. Besides, my brother had just started his company not far from her, so he’d stay close for a while. I was afraid to leave, but…”
“You had to live your life. And it sounds like your family wanted you to.”
She nods. “Right. After undergrad, they told me to go for my masters, so I did. That’s when her dementia started accelerating rapidly, but I still stayed in school. Then, I had offers for jobs and internships from all over the country, but I chose F1 because I love it. I moved home for the months in between graduation and moving here, and it was…” she trails off. “My mom wasn’t great. She was still lucid, but less than half the time. I left again to come here… and then on the first race week, I had to rush back because she landed in the ER.” She tells me about the enthusiastic resident who thought things were much worse than they were, and how her trip cut into the race. Guilt sweeps over me. I mercilessly taunted her for being late to a race, when she was just trying to take care of her sick mom.
Finally, Victoria explains her call with her brother today, and it’s no wonder she left work early. I don’t have the relationship with my parents that she does with hers, but if I heard about Grandma falling and breaking a hip, I’dbe beside myself.
“Anyway, Hunter threatened me into staying here and living my life. And the worst part is I feelrelieved.I hated seeing her slowly deteriorating when I was home for a few months, but I feel responsible for her because she’s mymom.”
