Page 71 of Que Será, Syrah

She shakes her head. “Caparelli.” Her gaze tracks mine and she frowns. Next thing I know she’s tearing the balloons from the pole. “You got somewhere I can toss these?”

I hold out my hand. “Here. I’ll take ’em. Now, c’mon. Let’s get you hydrated.”

In the kitchen, I pitch the balloons in the trash, then get her settled at the island. On a stool, this time. I’m not sure if she’s suffering from heat exhaustion, but just in case she passes out, I don’t want her to fall any further than she has to.

I grab a sports drink from the fridge. When I turn back around, I find her slumped over the counter, head buried in her arms.

“Here.” I nudge her arm with the cold glass. “Drink this. It’s got electrolytes.”

“Thanks.” She straightens up and empties half the glass. I move the open bottle to the counter, placing it within her reach. Then take a seat on the second stool.

“So, what’s wrong?” I ask again. “What’s happened?”

She shrugs listlessly. “Same thing that always happens. I messed up.”

I’m about to ask—again—for a more specific answer, when an obvious one occurs to me. “Is it Mr. Rogers?”

Her head whips around as she straightens up and stares at me aghast. “W-hy are you asking me? Y-you said you’d take care of that?”

“I did.” I place a hand over hers and squeeze reassuringly. “He was fine when I left him at the hospital. I mean, relatively so. They said they’d probably keep him there overnight, for observation. He was being treated for low blood sugar and possible heat exhaustion. Apparently, he said his sister hadn’t allowed him to have time for breakfast before the bike tour.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” she says, sagging on her stool in relief. Then her face darkens again. “That woman…”

“I know.” I nod in response. “And I’m sorry if I spooked you. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

She smiles faintly. “It’s okay. Just promise you’ll never, ever get spooked again.”

“Uhh…what?”

“Never mind.” She flaps a hand dismissively. “Just another old movie quote. It’s not important.”

“You like movies, huh?”

“I used to.” She falls silent for a moment, playing with her glass on the counter, sliding it through the condensation from one hand to the other. “Sorry for bursting in on you like this. I felt like I couldn’t stay there a minute longer, but I didn’t know where else to go.”

“No need to apologize,” I tell her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thanks,” she says quietly, still sliding her glass around the counter.

I wait a beat, but it’s obvious she’s not going to tell me what’s wrong. And there’s no reason she should. We really don’t know each other that well, even if it feels like we do. “I was thinking of making some dinner. You want anything?”

She shrugs disinterestedly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Maybe. Terrific. But—maybe—her lack of enthusiasm is contagious, because suddenly, I don’t feel like cooking, either. “Or I could order something. Pizza, perhaps?”

She twists her head in my direction and eyes me curiously. “What kind of pizza.”

“Whatever you want.”

“No, you. What would you order?”

“I’ll eat most things,” I tell her. “Suggest something.”

She considers for a moment. “Pulled pork?”

I nod. “Ai’ight. Cool.”

“What about pineapple?”

---