Page 97 of Sinful
My face heats. "Is it that obvious?"
"Sweetheart, the whole compound knows. You two aren't subtle."
I groan. "Great."
"But Helle?" Mom pulls back, serious now. "Promise me you'll call. Text. Let me know you're okay. Don't disappear for three years again."
"I won't. I promise."
"And the racing—do you still love it?"
The question surprises me. "Yeah. I do."
"Then don't give it up. Not for anyone." Her voice is fierce. "Find a legal way to do it if you can, but don't stop. Life's too short to give up the things that make you feel alive."
We go back into Dad's room together.
Elfe is telling him some story about the meeting the other day, gesturing with both hands while Dad listens with an amused expression.
He stops when he sees us.
"Everything okay?" he asks.
"Everything's fine," Mom says. "Just mother-daughter talk."
Dad looks at me, studies my face. Whatever he sees there makes him nod.
"You settling in okay?" he asks. "Getting rest?"
"Yeah, Dad. I'm good."
"Good. Because you look like hell warmed over."
Elfe snorts. "Dad. Language."
"What? I can't tell my daughter she looks like shit?"
And with that, we all laugh.
It feels normal.
Almost.
There's a knock at the door, and Dr. Castellano enters with his medical bag.
"Time for my daily torture session," Dad mutters.
"Don't be dramatic," the doctor says, moving to check vitals. "How's the pain?"
"Manageable."
"Good. Let's take a look at that arm."
Mom, Elfe, and I step into the hallway to give them privacy.
"He's doing well," Dr. Castellano says a few minutes later, emerging from the room. "Infection is responding to antibiotics. Another week and he should be able to move around more. Two weeks, maybe go home."
"Home," Mom breathes. "That sounds good."
