Driven By Fate(57)

Please, just go away.

No. Don’t go. Please be him. Don’t go.

Frankie closed her eyes a moment, finding her center, before continuing. “I work with the men who drive these cabs and most are good, family men. They pride themselves on service and the safety of their passengers. But we have no way of knowing when we climb into the back seat. We don’t.” She thought of the relief she’d seen in women after they entered her car and saw her behind the wheel. “We shouldn’t be scared, neither female drivers nor passengers. We should have options. That’s where Frankie’s Fleet comes in.”

Five minutes later, she’d finished outlining her business model. There was a dragged-out silence before the applause had her falling back a step. Pleasure, relief, and surprise clogged her insides, but as soon as the lights came on, her attention swung to the entrance—

Just in time to see the door open and close.

No. No…she had to know if it was Porter. If she stayed put, if she didn’t at least find out, she would always wonder. It would drive her crazy speculating if he’d come to see her one last time. A group of her professors was coming toward her, still clapping, but she rounded the podium on the opposite side and ran. Ran right up the center aisle, ignoring the murmurs from the crowd, her uncle’s alarmed voice. She reached the door and burst through it. No one. The hallway was completely empty, except for one sleeping student who jolted upright at her loud exit.

She pressed a hand to her side to ease the stab of disappointment and then jogged for the door. Sunlight blinded her when she pushed outside, so she lifted a hand to shield her eyes.

No footsteps. No sign of anyone. Had her exhausted imagination conjured something that wasn’t really there? A beautiful hallucination? How unfair. How cruel.

Wind cut through the quad outside the building, whipping her hair back, threatening to drag out the tears pushing behind her eyes. Then silence. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, picturing how Porter had looked coming toward her in the hotel lobby. Possessive. Heroic. That man wouldn’t leave her standing there feeling like she might die, would he?

Slowly, she cracked an eye. Still alone.

Feeling as though weights were tied to her ankles, she reentered the building.

…

She spent an hour answering questions before she received her grade.

An A.

Or a motherf*ckin’ A, as her uncle called it on the drive home. Not only had she gotten the highest grade possible, but two of her professors had expressed interest in investing in Frankie’s Fleet. For now, she planned to keep it in the family, but she’d agreed to take it under advisement with the board—also known as the cab drivers who followed her, blaring their horns the entire way back to Queens.

There was happiness. Exultancy. She’d done it. Tomorrow would begin a long journey until she saw her vision succeed, but the validation she’d needed for so long had come in spades. And yet there was a void so wide and deep, she couldn’t jump across. She could share the victory with her family, but it only filled a margin of the gap. Her uncle watched her steadily from the passenger side of her cab, looking anxious, as if he wanted to ask her why she couldn’t keep the smile on her face longer than two seconds before it fell and broke in half at her feet.

She pulled up to the house and shifted the cab into park. Her uncle alighted immediately, heaving his bulky frame onto the sidewalk. Move your legs. Walk inside. Make lunch. She knew the actions they expected her to perform, actions she usually liked performing, but just then the effort was equivalent to scaling a mounting without a harness.

As her uncle reached the driveway, a vehicle drew her attention, one she’d never seen before. It was…old. Old and gorgeous. It looked like a vintage New York City taxi. Just like….just like the one Porter had given her in miniature. Only this one had been painted a deep rose color, with the words Frankie’s Fleet stenciled on the side in gold lettering. She hiccupped a sob, finally finding the strength to leave the car. The closer she got, the more details she noticed. Shiny, chrome wheels. Original headlights. Perfect. It was perfect.

“Did you do this?” she asked Joe, circling the fender. “It’s…God, it’s amazing.”

He nodded toward the house. “Not me, Frankie.”

That feeling she’d had in the quad outside the lecture hall came racing back. It tore over the ravaged ground it had left the first time around, burning the whole way. It was too soon for this much hope again. Her first instinct was to turn and run, fast and far. As far as she could get from the house. From hope. But the invisible tether guiding her toward the house was stronger. It pulled her, tugging her through the front door. A familiar smell wafted from the kitchen, bringing her hands to her mouth, pressing hard, so hard.

She stopped in the archway that led to the kitchen, praying everything she saw in front of her was real, that she hadn’t mentally rounded the bend and created the image of Porter cooking. Cooking in her kitchen.

It had to be real, though, because her mind couldn’t possibly create such an epic mess. Raw, loose spaghetti noodles lay on all available surfaces. Tomato sauce decorated the walls. Porter hadn’t seen her yet, too focused on the pot he stirred in front of himself on the stove.

Sanchez’s kid was sitting on the counter, pointing at the contents of the pot, wearing his Jets hat, as always. “You need more garlic, man.”