Page 20 of The Fast Lane
“Your mom doesn’t do anything halfway, does she?” Theo asked as we pulled onto the freeway.
Grinning, I slid on my sunglasses. “You know her motto. Why keep it simple when we can make it as complicated as possible.”
When she used her powers for good, the results were pretty damn amazing. I think my mom could solve the world food shortage, advise the president on any number of issues, and still have a full-course dinner on the table. However, when you were the object of her obsession, she was a downright menace. Her intentions were good though. I’d give her that.
“Is she still doing the needlepoint?” he asked, amusement laced in his voice.
Mom had discovered needlepoint a year ago and it had consumed her. She talked about needlepoint, watched needlepoint videos, joined online needlepoint groups, made her own needlepoint designs. Last year, all of us had received framed needlepoint pictures on our birthdays and Christmas. I hung one of mine, a scene of a dog dressed as a bumble bee with the words BEE HAPPY underneath it, in the bathroom.
But she hadn’t stopped there. Convinced she could make a business out of it, she became a needlepoint machine, cranking out one after the other, and then peddling them at craft shows. While she’d often leave with several boxes of projects to sell, she’d return with even more things she’d purchased. Dad would huff and growl over the money she was spending. But it seemed to make Mom happy.
Like the sewing phase had. The interior design phase. The pottery phase. The pastry chef phase. The knitting. Oh, the knitting. So many hats and mittens and scarves, and we lived in Texas.
“She’s moved on to candle making. The last one she showed me were candles in the shapes of hedgehogs and squirrels.”
“Squirrels?”
“Yep, and chipmunks, bunnies, birds, trees. She’s in her woodland creatures era.” I leaned forward and fiddled with the radio.
“Nope.” He swatted my hand away. “Driver picks the music.”
“That’s not fair. You know I don’t drive. That’s how you got into this mess.”
“What mess?”
I snorted. “Me. I’m the mess. You have to cart me halfway across the country. I bet you were looking forward to a quiet, solo trip and you managed to get stuck with me.”
“I don’t mind. I don’t get you all to myself that often,” he said in a low, quiet voice.
Oh, that voice sent a shiver through me. He didn’t mean anything by that, of course. Stare out the window like a good friend and ignore it, Ramos.
But I couldn’t help myself. I snuck a peek at him and studied his profile. The scruffy jaw, the straight nose, the golden hue of his skin. His hat covered his eyes, which was a shame. But I could picture them anyway. He was better-than-model handsome. The sort of guy who grew more handsome every time he made me laugh or feel special without even realizing it.
Like saying stuff like that.
That was not good. Stay alert, Ramos.
But still I kept looking.
His left hand curled around the steering wheel, his right resting on his knee. The sun touched the silver ring he wore on his right ring finger—a gift from his mom years ago. I’m not sure he ever took it off.
One of my (numerous and detailed) Theo fantasies began to form before I could stop it. I’d slide my hand across the console between us and cover his hand. It would be warm from the sun, larger than mine, a little rougher too. I’d trace the veins I found there, reveling in the strength and solidness.
He’d shoot me one of his devastating half-smiles and my breath would catch. He’d turn his hand over and link our fingers, resting it on his thigh. We’d spend the next eight and a half hours like this, my hand nestled in his. In this fantasy, we’d never have to pee, nor did we run out of gas.
The dragon wings fluttered in my stomach, enjoying this fantasy very much. Then again, they’d been ever-present since he’d picked me up this morning because that meant I was within ten feet of him.
“What do you think?” he asked.
I blinked. “What?”
“About what I said.”
Crap. What had he said? I’d been too busy obsessing over a hand-holding fantasy. Who even does that? A. Hand-holding. Fantasy. That was like a dog fantasizing about half a tennis ball, or a toddler getting excited over a baby doll without a head.
This is why I limited my Theo time. It had taken years, and I do mean years, to live down the “Stalker Ali” reputation I’d earned for my Theo-Induced Antics as a teenager. My brothers hadn’t let me forget any of the embarrassing things I’d done to get his attention. I know it was all jokes and laughs for them. I played along even, but deep down, it hurt—my heart had been more bruised than I’d let on.
But it had also taken just as many years for me to set boundaries. I saw him regularly at family meals and holidays. We’d get together for game nights, a hike, to see a movie or catch a meal, but I always made sure someone else was joining us. These were the rules I’d made for myself. If he realized it, he never said a thing. It was easier since he’d moved to Houston a few years ago. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.