Driven By Fate(55)

Joe studied his thumbnail. “Damn. I wish your mom could see you.”

Frankie stopped breathing. They hadn’t talked about her mother in years and even on those rare occasions it was stilted and over too soon, followed by her uncle’s quick departure. But he wasn’t moving. He was still there.

“She never even let me babysit you. I can’t even imagine how she would have felt, knowing I’d be the one raising you.” He looked away on a laugh. “She’d probably do that thing where she swiped a hand across her throat and shook her head. Shut it down, she’d say. You two could be twins.”

“Yeah?” Frankie managed, already dying to make that gesture in the mirror.

“Yeah. But I could tell her I didn’t do so bad, huh? Or maybe you did it all on your own.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “This idea of yours…its good, Frankie. I don’t know what to say, except I hope you’ll let me help. Whatever it takes. I know I can’t drive right now, but I can do something else to take the pressure off. We’ll find a way to make it happen.”

She nodded, not quite ready to speak.

“Since we’re already acting like a couple of chicks, here…” Joe reached across the table and ruffled her hair. Their version of a hug. “It would have been a sad, empty house without you around the last fourteen years. I mean that.”

Hearing that changed something inside her. A hill that had already been corroding over the last few days finally settled in a cloud of dust. For so long she’d felt indebted to her uncle for taking her in, supporting her financially while making good on her mother’s leftover medical bills. To everyone who ever handed her so much as a dime or bought her a meal, she’d felt beholden. The whole reason she’d gone to Serve that first night was to arrange repayment to the Prestons. On the surface, it was why she’d gone to work for Porter. What if she could pay back the debts by succeeding? By being…herself. Maybe all along, it had been enough just to be Frankie De Luca.

And maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to pay back the scholarship.

She’d earned the chance it afforded her.

Porter’s face materialized. For the last three days, she’d only been able to play that final afternoon in her mind on a painful loop. Her scope expanded now, all the way back to the beginning. Porter’s encouragement when she’d told him her vision. The first time she’d ever said it out loud. His immediate denial when she’d admitted she may have to put off starting the business. He’d thought of the name. Thought of her.

Was he thinking of her now?

Desperate once again for a distraction, she reached beneath the table for her backpack, taking out the folder containing her presentation and laying it flat on the table. It hurt to speak, but she forced the words out, anyway. “We’re going to need a lot of frickin’ cars.”

…

There was a crack on Porter’s ceiling.

It might have been there before he left for New York, or it might have formed while he’d been gone. Either way, it comforted him, that crack. As much as he could be comforted when his entire body throbbed like a giant f*cking injury. A grave, life-threatening injury that he never wanted to heal. Healing meant Francesca had never been there to inflict the pain, and he’d never wish a second with her away, even if he’d given up his chance at any more.

Throb throb throb throbthrobthrob.

Deep breath. Focus on the crack. From his position on the floor, he only needed to sit up halfway in order to flip the Billy Joel album over. Uptown Girl was playing. Too upbeat, but he wouldn’t let himself skip it. He never did, no matter how times it had come on.

The four sterile, gray walls he’d returned to in London had been repellant, far worse than before because he knew what color looked like now, knew what it felt like to see through eyes that would see her later, when everything would brighten and take on new meaning.

He’d spent the last two days being briefed on his new role as a popular, rising politician’s head of security. There had been hand shaking, strategizing, review of the layouts of the man’s home and workplace, then going over them again. Travel schedules. Organizing his new team. All of it should have distracted him, but had instead provided the barest of white noise. Francesca ruled every corner of his mind. Her face was everywhere. Her forgiveness sat on his shoulders, heavier than an anvil, but nothing compared to the absence of the weight of her hand in his. That lack of weight was pulverizing.

In his state of desolation, he’d been reduced to reading the notes she’d made in his database while working, the purchase orders she’d keyed in, adding her own voice to them. He’d read them until his eyes were ready to leak blood. He wished they would. At least he’d have something to show on the outside to symbolize the devastation inside.

The record started to skip, forcing him to sit up. On autopilot, he started to flip it over, but the laptop sitting open on his desk drew his attention. Francesca’s purchase orders still filled the screen from the last time he’d read them. Telling himself it would be the final time today, Porter got to his feet, crossed the room, and sat in front of the screen, squinting into the harsh glow. He hit a wrong key, his lack of sleep making him uncoordinated. It brought him to the computer desktop, the bright, blue background making him feel queasy. He started to go back to the purchase orders, but an icon caught his eye. It wasn’t lined up like the rest, but protruded slightly to the right.