Page 124 of Collided (Dirty Air 2)

Sophie

I couldn’t help watching Liam’s press release on a loop over the past week. Everyone in the racing community talked about his agent’s deception, shock waves rippling about how something like that can be done in the first place. Liam kept quiet, not a single message or missed call popping up on my phone. Instead of brooding and gorging myself with ice cream, I used my sadness as motivation, shifting my focus from him to myself.

Over the week, I spent hours researching and making calls, inquiring about my areas of interest. Liam’s courage to stand up to his team lit my own fire. It gives me the strength to stand in my dad’s office, a library fit for a movie set, while he stares at me. The smell of books calms me before I take a seat in a leather chair across from him.

“You might as well spit out whatever’s bugging you.” He takes off his reading glasses and places them on his cherry wood desk.

“Well…I don’t know how you’re going to take it. But I can’t hold it in anymore,” I stammer, the words not coming out smoothly.

“Are you pregnant?” he blurts out.

My eyes water as I break out into a fit of coughs. “God, no.”

“Good. Now that we got that out of the way, what’s bothering you?”

“Whoa, you insinuated I was pregnant, and you segue into something else? Are you trying to tell me I need to lay off the Chunky Monkey? I buy one pint of ice cream…”

“No. You’ve been a blubbering mess ever since you left Abu Dhabi.”

I frown at my dad. “You need to be way less blunt with people.”

“Sorry. That was rude.”

“Yeah, thank you very much. Now I don’t feel so bad about dropping this on you.”

He shakes his head at me “I have no idea where you got your sass from.”

“Sir, you’re looking at the product of your own creation. Anyway… Spending time with kids inspired me to research what I can do with my creativity. I want to go to school for art.”

His elbows rest on his desk with his chin pressed against his hands. “Nothing you do with art will ever support you and a family.”

“I know that. But I did the math and if you die within the next ten years, your will should be large enough to cover my living expenses for about two hundred years, give or take a century. Until then, there’s always stripping.”

My dad lets out a husky laugh. I laugh with him, the sound foreign to my ears after a week of sulking.

“Jokes aside, what would you like to do?” His sincere tone touches my heart.

“I want to pursue art therapy. After spending time with Liam’s nieces, I realized I want to work with kids. What can I say? They gravitate toward me. I think it’s all in the height because they see me as an equal.”

“If that’s what you want, I’ll support you. Anything to bring a smile to your face because I hate seeing you sad and mopey.” He frowns.

“I’m not mopey. I’m a bad bitch who enjoys the comfort of pajamas and wine as a food group.”

“It’s okay to admit you’ve been sad. I don’t blame you after what you went through.”

I shake my head side to side. “I don’t want to talk about it…”

“Then why don’t you tell me more about this program you want. No daughter of mine is going to become a stripper, so I might as well see what I’m paying for.”

I pull out my laptop and show my dad the program I want to attend in Milan. The whole conversation with my dad went shockingly easier than I thought. A weight lifts off my shoulders that I didn’t know I was carrying around, my future looking brighter by the day.

For the rest of the afternoon, my dad spends time with me. He watches a couple videos on how art therapy helps kids of all ages before pulling me into a hug and telling me how proud he is of me.

Everything finally feels like it’ll be okay. Well, almost everything.

* * *

I run down the stairs of our house when the doorbell rings. The mailman must be dropping off my new sneakers, a you go girl gift from me to me. My order may have been a result of watching Tom Haverford telling me to “treat yo self,” but if my dad asks, I’ll feign indifference.