Page 64 of Formula Dreams
“Why don’t you divorce her?”I ask quietly.
It’s a question I’ve never asked and the flush of anger on his face tells me he never expected me to.“Don’t be ridiculous.She couldn’t survive the scandal.”
I tip my head back and let out a laugh that comes from deep in my belly.
“What’s so funny?”my father snaps.
I’m still chuckling, shaking my head.“It amuses me that you try to play this off as if you’re doing her a favor.You’re a big part of the reason she’s an addict.”
“How dare you?”My father gasps, drawing himself up straighter.“I’ve provided your mother with everything she ever needed.”
“Love,” I say.
He frowns at me.“What about it?”
“You never gave her love.Never gave it to me, for that matter.And now we’re both suffering for it.”
“You are being very disrespectful.”He slams his hands on the desk.“And I won’t tolerate it.”
“Oh, fuck off, you cranky old wanker,” I bark at him, and he blinks at me in shock.I move to his desk, lean my hands on it, and look him in the eye.“Here’s how it’s going to be.You’ll continue to pay for the best care.I’ll keep the staff steady, and I’ll keep the tabloids away.I’ll continue to do the things you should do and won’t.But don’t ever mistake my competence for agreement.And don’t ever suggest again that you’re working in her best interests.If you take credit for it again, I’ll use all my vast financial resources to make your life miserable.”
For a second—one clean second—something akin to vulnerability cracks across his face.Then it slides away.“Are you finished?”
“More than,” I reply and turn to leave.I know I’ll never be back.
♦
Traffic snakes alongthe embankment, brake lights washing in red streaks over wet streets.The text message from Francesca earlier made me smile and scowl all at the same time.Trattoria Viale.7:30.Don’t be late.Don’t be jealous.
I’m not late.I’m early, which is worse.
And I’m definitely not jealous.
Much.
The restaurant has valet parking, and I don’t miss the glint in the man’s eyes when I hand him money and the keys to the Aston Martin.I enter a warm atmosphere with brick walls crowded with framed black-and-white photos of famous people who have eaten here.Copper pans hang above a postage stamp bar, and my stomach rumbles in response to the scents of garlic and butter wafting through the air.I’m grateful that my girlfriend—wait!What?—is Italian and prefers to eat the food of her people.
They’re already there, tucked into a corner two-top that’s become a three-top with an extra chair and a squeeze.Carlos laughs at something she says and tips his head, eyes crinkling.He’s good-looking in a wholesome way—clean lines, easy smile, exactly the sort of man mothers like and sponsors trust.Ask anyone and they’ll tell you, Carlos is their best friend.He’s the nice guy of the circuit, has no enemies.No scandals, no sharp edges, and admittedly, I’ve always liked him.
Until he nearly touched Francesca’s ass.
Speaking of that woman, I take a moment to study her.Her hair is down in silky waves and she’s in a thin sweater that makes her look like sin.She glances up and sees me, eyes lighting with joy.That provokes a reaction, making me breathless.The way her mouth lifts—quick, involuntary—is a dopamine hit, something I could get used to.
“Barnes,” Carlos greets, rising to shake my hand.Firm grip, steady eyes.“Good of you to join.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, and it comes out drier than intended.
We settle in our chairs and Francesca nudges a wine list in my direction, but I wave it off.“I’m good with water.”
“Discipline,” Carlos says, amused.
“Got a race coming up,” I correct.“Or did you forget?”
Carlos chuckles and raises his wineglass to me in a mock toast.“I didn’t forget, but one glass never hurt anyone.”
That’s probably true but really, I’m not much of a wine drinker.
The waiter arrives with a small carafe of olive oil so fragrant I want to consume it all.He sets it down with a basket of bread that gives a hollow, promising knock when I tap the crust.He rattles off the specials and because he’s Italian, Francesca carries on a short conversation with him.Her accent is beautiful and she’s so genuinely outgoing, people light up around her.I do believe I could listen to her talk for hours, having no clue what she’s saying.Ultimately, she orders pasta and a blush sauce, Carlos goes for grilled sea bass with lemon, and I pick the veal piccata.
