Carter #2
"And if I didn't recalibrate your 'limits,' you’d be dragging the floorboard across the gravel trap," I shoot back, meeting his gaze. "But please, don't let me get in the way of a good story. I forgot you prefer the 'feel' of the car over the literal reality."
He doesn’t argue. Instead, his fingers hook over the edge of my chair, the wood grain creaking slightly as he pulls me toward him.
He doesn't stop until our shoulders are pressed together, his arm naturally claiming the back of my seat as if it’s been there all afternoon.
He leans in just enough to invade my space, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic line against the collar of my shirt, right at the nape of my neck.
"The sensors were fine," he says, his voice dropping into that low, rough vibration that usually signals he’s done playing nice. "You just like flagging my laps so you have an excuse to keep me in the garage for an extra hour."
"I flag them because I'm the one who has to explain to the engineers why we're burning through brake pads twice as fast as other drivers," I mutter, though I don't move an inch away from him.
His mother watches his hand, a small, knowing hum vibrating in her throat.
It’s barely audible, just a soft, melodic note of recognition that stays tucked behind her smile.
Dominic’s eyes flicker to her, catching the look, and his thumb goes still.
He doesn't pull away with a jerk, but he slowly straightens, his hand retreating to the table to adjust his sleeve with sudden, focused precision.
He clears his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and stands.
"Actually," he says, his voice leveling out. "We left something for you in the car. It was Carter's find, but I should go grab it."
He looks down at me for a beat, his gaze lingering just long enough to feel like a question before he shifts back to his mother.
"Be right back," he mutters, already turning toward the door.
The door clicks shut, leaving a sudden vacuum in the room that feels twice as large without his energy filling it. She watches the wood for a moment, the soft, knowing curve of her lips lingering before she turns her focus back to me.
"He’s always had a difficult time sitting still," she says, her voice smooth. "Ever since he was a boy. He treats life like a qualifying lap—everything has to be perfectly timed, perfectly executed."
"He certainly has the intensity for it," I say, propping an elbow on the table. "Do you have quite a few visitors?"
"Dominic and Luka come multiple times every week," she says, her gaze drifting toward the window. "Luka brings the gossip, and Dominic brings the zest when he’s not being silent. They’re very loyal, my boys."
She doesn't mention a third name. She doesn't have to. The omission of his father hangs in the air, thick and inescapable, a stark contrast to the sunlight streaming through the glass. I look down at my lap, a sudden, sharp pang of sympathy tightening my chest.
His mom seems to sense the shift in my mood. She reaches out, her hand resting lightly near mine on the table. "But he brought you. Dominic has never brought anyone with him when he visits. Not once."
"Maybe he just wanted an audience for his driving," I say, a small, deflected smile tugging at my mouth. "He does have a bit of a flair for the dramatic."
Her expression doesn't waver. She just watches me, her silence making my excuse feel as flimsy as it was.
The door swings open and Dominic strides in, the bundle tucked under one arm. He’s already mid-sentence, his voice regained its smooth, effortless clip.
"You'll never guess where these were hiding," he says, crossing the room and setting the canvases on the table. "Buried in the corners, like they were waiting for a reason to come out."
He turns the paintings around, and the vibrant blues of the coast spill onto the table. His mother’s breath hitches. Her hands hover over the canvas, her fingers trembling slightly as they trace the red cliffs.
"I thought these were lost," she says, her face illuminating with a joy that looks almost painful.
"Carter actually found them," Dominic says, leaning a hip against the table. While his mother is lost in the landscape, he cuts his eyes toward me. He shoots me a quick, sharp wink—a private, wicked reminder of exactly how the hole came through the wall.
I feel my skin go hot all at once, a blush staining its way up my neck.
"I remember painting this," she breathes, her eyes fixed on the sea. "The light was just starting to fail, and the wind was coming in off the water. Carter, you might’ve seen it, my studio is behind the main house—the light there was always the best in the late afternoon."
I freeze, my throat going tight. I shoot a wordless, wide-eyed look at Dominic. My studio is behind the main house. She’s talking about the pool house. She’s talking about it as if she expects to walk back into it tomorrow morning.
Dominic’s expression doesn't change, but he meets my gaze with a subtle, warning intensity. He gives a microscopic shake of his head, his jaw setting. Don't say anything.
I clear my throat, the sound slightly forced, and shift my focus to the walls. "Are... are these yours, too?" I ask, gesturing to the landscapes hanging around us.
She laughs softly, a sound tinged with a delicate sort of sadness. "No, dear. I haven't picked up a brush in years. I’m afraid my hands decided they no longer wished to follow instructions."
She holds her hands out, palms up. They look elegant, but as I watch, a faint, rhythmic tremor pulses through her fingers.
"The nerves," she explains, her tone more clinical than weary. "The numbness sets in, and the world goes quiet. I can hold a painting, but I can no longer feel the weight of a brush. It’s like trying to play a piano with gloves made of lead."
I look down at her hands, then back to the landscapes. "Is it... is there a way to treat it?" I ask, the question out before I can stop it.
"Unfortunately, no," she says, her voice steady—the kind of calm that only comes after years of accepting the inevitable.
"It started in my hands, but over the years, the feedback from my legs just...
faded. The chair made the world much easier to navigate once standing became more of a chore than it was worth. "
My eyes drop to the polished metal of her chair, the reality of it suddenly feeling heavy in my chest. My gaze shifts to Dominic, a dull, heavy thud echoing in my chest as she adds, "It seems to have become a bit of a Valerio trait."