I smile. “I think you can stop with that now. Twenty-two is hardly a baby.”
“You'll always be my baby sis,” he replies. “Oh, before I go, I've been meaning to ask if you've had any, you know, attacks, since being there?”
I knew this question would come up at some point, but I'm surprised it took so long. Running my finger around the lid of the prosecco bottle, I answer, “No. It's still been years since the last time.”
“I just thought since you're around people who have been in car wrecks, you might . . . I dunno, revert.”
I stare down at my hands, now resting on the counter. After my parents died in a car wreck, I started getting panic attacks somewhat regularly. They couldn't exactly pinpoint the triggers, but it seemed to happen more often when I was feeling emotional. I was put on medication, went to therapy, and then after a while, they became less frequent. Then, they eventually stopped altogether. I haven't taken any medication in years, nor have I had an attack. It took a couple of months before I would get back into a vehicle, but after that, I was okay.
“No. I just compartmentalize it,” I tell him. “I don't see them as mom and dad or that it was the same thing that happened to us.” In fact, anytime someone comes in after having a crash, I pretend it's for something else entirely and shove the thoughts far from my mind so there's not even a chance to be affected.
I hear him let out a relieved sigh through the phone. “Okay, that's good then. Alright, I'll let you go. Talk to you later.”
“Love you.”
“Yep,” is his answer before hanging up, causing me to smile. That's his way of saying,loveyou too.
Standing in my now silent kitchen, I look around my small apartment as my lingering smile from talking to my brother begins to fade. I'm not lonely . . . not really.
Okay, maybe I am.A lot.
I left all of my friends, and my brother, back in Portland a few months ago, and I've been working too much to make new friends here. In all honesty, I can't tell if I keep myself busy so that I don't have to feel lonely or if my being so busy is the cause of my being in this situation. I had broken up with my last boyfriend of six months a week before moving here and haven't been with anyone since. I admit I do miss the intimacy of a relationship, the cuddling, the talking, the sex. But unfortunately, I don't think anything like that is in the cards for me anytime soon.
It's not long after I hang up with Graham that I get the call I was expecting, asking me to come into work. I go to my closet and look through my different colored scrubs. I'm feeling pink today. Pulling out the clothes, I get dressed, grab my bag, and then head to the hospital.
The one thing I don't like about where I work is that there are cliques. Even though I love what I do and love helping people in general, I still find it hard to come in here some days when I feel like I'm on the outside. Sure they smile at me and are polite enough. But no one goes out of their way to talk to me or continue a conversation that I may start or ask me to come and hang out with them. I'm the new girl, and sometimes I feel like I'm in high school all over again.
Walking off the elevator, I say hello to a few people, check over my stock and update myself on any new information. Then, I get started on my rounds.
CHAPTER 6
CAMPBELL
It's around noon when I pull up to the garage, where I get all the aftermarket parts for my car and any other work that needs to be done on it. Today, I just need them to check it over, make sure it's all good and maybe do a little tune-up.
It took me a little while to get going this morning – same as every other morning, I guess – but I don't know when my next race is, and I need it checked over before then. So, I dragged myself out the door, and here I am.
Miguel and Jorge, brothers and co-owners, are leaning against an emerald green Ford Mustang, sharing a joint, and deep in conversation when I arrive. Like Reese, we're connected only because of the races. They come along to some of them, but they're mostly just behind the scenes, souping up or fixing a lot of the vehicles that are used in them. If you're in the market for a new car, they can hook you up as well.
“¿Como vas, guay?” Miguel asks when he sees me approaching.
“Not bad.” I take the joint Jorge offers, even though I don't like the stuff and suck in a lungful before handing it back and coughing. “What are you doing with this?” I ask, jerking my head to the Mustang.
“Engine rebuild,” Miguel answers, moving around to the front of it and shutting the hood. “Buddy lent it to his sister for a few months. She blew the engine.”
“Shit,” I respond with a grimace.
Jorge snickers. “If she weren't fucking his best friend and getting him to pay for it, he would have torn her a new one.”
“He still should have,” Miguel adds with a shake of his head.
Jorge rolls his eyes at his brother. “You're just sore 'cause she didn't fuck you that one time.”
Miguel denies it, and they start bickering back and forth, pulling a small smile out of me. They're still arguing when my phone vibrates in my pocket, so I pull it out to read.
Unknown: Campbell?
I frown down at the message before stepping out of the way of Miguel moving an extension cord by my feet.
