Page 89 of The Front Runner
And I’m not sure I ever will be.
* * *
“You’re really out?”My Nana is not buying my story about how I came to see her for more samosas. “Because you don’tlooklike you’ve been eating.”
I haven’t been.
“Yup. Can we make some?”
Folding samosas with my grandmother is therapeutic. It’s soothing. And right now, I need to be soothed. Even her lilting accent soothes me—until it reminds me of Stefan’s and the way it’s more pronounced when he’s turned on. A shiver races down my spine.
She hobbles back into my parents’ house, shaking her head. “Your parents are out right now.”
She moved in here a couple of years ago after my grandfather passed. She tells me it’s because I’m her favorite grandchild, but I’m pretty sure it’s because my parents have a separate suite she can live in.
I follow her to the kitchen and try to pull stuff out, but I’m moping, and I keep getting in her way. I feel like Eeyore dragging his sad ass around just being generally brutal.
“You”—she points at me and then points at the table—“go sit down.”
“Okay.” I tuck my tail and drop into a chair, relieved to be resting and away from prying eyes, disapproving stares, and awkward conversations with Hank.God,are they ever awkward. He’s trying so hard to be chipper around me while also not talking about the elephant in the room.
It’s brutal, and I’m ashamed to say I’ve taken to avoiding him.
“Where is the blond boy?” Nana has her upper body shoved into the fridge where she’s pulling ingredients.
“Probably working.”
“Did he break your heart?”
My throat constricts. But I don’t respond.
“Yes?” She shakes her head as she bends down to pull a bowl out of the lower cupboard, her cotton saree draping with her every movement. “I knew he would.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t my type?”
She looks at me now, her eyes fierce, her index finger pointing straight at me once again. “Exactly. Your type wasn’t working for you, so I knew he would. All smart and sexy and established, why wouldn’t he?”
Did my grandmother just call Stefan Dalca sexy?
I clear my throat and pick at a dent on the dated wooden table.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Did he break your heart?”
I feel my bottom lip wobble. “Yeah.”
“And what are you going to do about it?” she asks as she continues organizing ingredients and cooking utensils.
“I mean… nothing. I don’t think he can forgive me. I’m not one to grovel. I’m still not even sure I did anything wrong. It’s… complicated.”
“Mira, Mira, Mira.” Her head shakes, and she makes a tutting noise. “You work so hard for everything else that you want in life. School, career, your independence—you haven’t cared about what anyone thought about all that. What makes this any different? What makes you think you won’t have to work for this?”
“I…” I trail off.
I don’t have a good answer. The only thing that runs through my head is Stefan asking if I ever do something that doesn’t benefit me. Going after him with reckless abandon would serve me, but would it just upset him? I feel like I’m living each day with that one sentence haunting me. Do I really do that? I became a veterinarian to help animals, to be a voice for those who don’t have one, and I know I’ve helped countless people along the way. As a general rule, people love their animals and appreciate my work.
