Page 120 of Green Flag
“Leave it, Fia,” I told her. “I’m okay. I’ve moved on.”
But something in her eyes told me she wouldn’t.
She told me she was there if I ever needed her and dismissed herself, leaving me sniffling, breath hitching and fighting the need to burst into tears.
I fanned my face before grabbing my phone, ready to delete all of his messages and every memory of him.
But I failed.
One of my favourite things about staying at Pedro’s in the summers was the freedom that came with it. I had a whole different life. His niece’s riding stables that held the camp each year were so close to Pedro’s house that I didn’t have to travel far each day, and the friends I made there became closer year after year.
That year, being fifteen, I’d been invited to house parties nearly every weekend. With Pedro at the races, it was just me and the few staff who worked at his house.
And I got away with everything.
I drank. Smoked. Partied.
I rolled out of bed whenever the fuck I wanted to.
Even when he was around.
He said his house was ‘judgment-free’ and he wanted to give me the room to flourish and be who I wanted to be.
When he had a week off the races, he drove me to a house party. A boy who was attending had messaged me, and he seemed cute, so I went for the most revealing outfit I could. Mypsoriasis started a year later, so my stomach was out. I was in low-rise jeans and the tiniest top imaginable—more of a bralette.
It was the ‘00s. I looked cool as shit.
And I’d look even cooler than shit rocking up with the most handsome man in the world and his sports car. He was busy tonight, dropping something off for next week’s race, but I secretly hoped he would step out of the car for the others to ogle him.
“You look beautiful,” he said as we rode down the country lanes. “Is it a special occasion?”
I shook my head, busy applying a third coat of gloss in the overhead mirror.
He sped up and my body pressed against my will into the chair, whiplash almost taking me out.
“Pedz!” I cried to his laughter.
He slowed as we rounded a bend and he turned down the music. “This is a different get-up for you. Will there be boys there?”
A dark edge infiltrated that last sentence and my shoulders stiffened. It was the same tone as my father’s.
“Of course there will be,” I said with a roll of my eyes.
“Will a certain boy be there?”
I didn’t answer him; I just added more lip gloss.
He held the side of the passenger seat tightly, avoiding my skin. “Everly.”
“Maybe.”
When he didn’t respond, I put the lip gloss in my clutch and turned the music up. He always let me play whatever songs I liked in the car.
But his fist slammed the off button and we sat in silence.
My heart was racing faster than we were driving.
“What about us?” he asked and his voice was thick with emotion.
