Slow Ride (Fast Track #5)(35)
Author: Erin McCarthy

She couldn’t even bring herself to look at it. She didn’t know what it was even about. She just knew she couldn’t handle it. So she ignored it. Again. Opening up her word processing program, she stared at the blank screen, at a loss for an idea of what to write for her daily blog. It didn’t have to be elaborate, just newsworthy or at least gossip-worthy. But all she could think about was that she had been in Diesel Lange’s bed and had the sore vagina to prove it.

It wasn’t a productive line of thought.

Yet it was the only one she had. Sipping her now-cold coffee, Tuesday made a face. She needed to troll the Internet and see what was going on in the world of racing. Or she could just continue to stare at the screen and remember what it felt like to come at the hands, or tongue actually, of a very skilled man.

There was a knock on her door. Given that it was Sunday, it couldn’t be a deliveryman so she was betting it was either her next-door neighbor, who frequently got bored with his retirement and wanted to chat with her, or Diesel. Which meant it had to be her neighbor, because why in the world would Diesel be at her door twenty minutes after he’d dropped her off?

He wouldn’t and she was a lunatic for letting her hopes jump up for even a split second.

Glancing at the manila envelopes again as she headed toward the door to answer it, she had a disturbing thought. What if she were distracted by Diesel as a way to distract herself from her father? That would really make her one messed-up chick, which she refused to believe. Diesel was plenty distracting all on his own.

She opened the door and discovered her mother standing on the other side, a basket in her hand.

“Hi, sweetie, I brought you lunch.” Her mother breezed in, fluffing her short gray hair with an elegant hand.

Tuesday’s heart sank. Seeing her mother made her feel guilty. Her mother had lost twenty pounds in the months since her husband’s diagnosis, and she had been thin to begin with. She’d stopped dyeing her hair and had abandoned her Pilates class. Tuesday thought she looked fragile, tenuous, and that upset her. It upset her even more to realize that she hadn’t called her mother in days because she didn’t know how to deal with her own grief, let alone her mother’s.

“Hi, Mom.” She leaned in and kissed her mother on the cheek. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Keeping busy is good for me.” Her mother gave a brief smile. “Besides, I’ve baked every other day for the last two weeks. I need someone to give all these desserts to.”

Her mother had always been the type who headed to the kitchen when she was stressed or upset. Tuesday preferred her own method of turning to liquor but she did understand where her mom was coming from. “Mom, you know I love dessert, but don’t you think eventually all the butter and sugar you ply me with will catch up with me?”

“No. You have my metabolism and it’s never caught up with me.”

“That’s true. In fact, you could stand to gain back about ten pounds.” Tuesday opened the basket. There were chicken salad sandwiches, fruit, and brownies inside. Her mouth started to water.

“So I hear you had a date,” her mother said, ignoring the weight comment.

Brownie halfway to her mouth, Tuesday paused. “How on earth do you know that?” The woman was a little scary.

“I hear things. So how was night at the races? And more important, how was Diesel Lange?”

She so didn’t want to go into this with her mother. “It was fine. He was fine. He’s nice and we’re friends.” Who did wicked naked things to each other in the dark.

“Well, that’s good. I heard he was at the wedding brunch with you as well. Does this mean we can finally start planning a wedding of our own?”

Tuesday swallowed the brownie bite she’d been chewing with no small degree of difficulty. “That’s a hell of a leap. Don’t pull out any bridal magazines just yet. I’m not even sure I’ll be seeing him again.” He had asked her out again, but men did that all the time. When you would be just fine walking away after a night together they had to ruin it by claiming they wanted to see you again and would call you. Then didn’t do either. Now that she thought about it, they hadn’t even talked about a day, let alone a time or place.

Suddenly feeling glum, Tuesday took another bite of the brownie.

“You like him, don’t you?” Her mother studied her.

“I guess. Who knows?” Yes, she was well aware she sounded petulant but she didn’t want to talk about the reality of dating with her mother. She just wanted to lay on the couch and daydream about her and Diesel’s sexcapades. What they had done. All the things they could do. Fun stuff like that.

“I worry about you, Tuesday.”

Oh, Lord. Like she needed that guilt heaped on her. “You don’t need to worry about me. If anyone should be worrying it should be me worrying about you.”

“You don’t need to worry about me.” But even as she spoke, tears welled up in her mother’s eyes. “Your father was so proud of you, you know.”

Tuesday’s throat tightened up. “I know.”

“You were the best of both worlds—his beautiful daughter, but also like a son. That’s why we only had one child. You were everything we could have asked for.”

Her mother was acting like she was the one who had died. Uncomfortable with the conversation, Tuesday picked at the front of Diesel’s T-shirt, which she was still wearing. “I tried to be a good daughter.”

“Do you remember that time we went to the lake? You must have been about seven years old. Your father took you fishing and he was so proud because you caught one bigger than anyone else on the water that day.”

She nodded. She did remember that trip. She’d been thrilled to be spending alone time with her dad. “He was a great father.”

“He used to wear his lucky T-shirt fishing. I wonder what happened to that shirt?” Without warning, her mother’s face crumpled.

Tuesday’s heart crawled up her throat. “It’s okay.” She wrapped her mother in a hug. What she was finding harder to deal with than she had expected was that her mother seemed to want to cope with grief by talking about her husband. Whereas Tuesday wasn’t ready yet. She just wasn’t. She wanted to bury her sacred memories until she could bring them out without bawling and losing control. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

Her mother recovered quickly, pulling back and waving her off. “I have the disabled veterans coming to the house tomorrow to pick up all your father’s clothes. No sense in them collecting dust. But those T-shirts he wore when he was sick, those I just threw out. No one should have to wear those, no matter how many times they’re washed, or how in need a person is.”