6. Evangeline
EVANGELINE
Water slides down the wrong pipe, and I choke out a harsh cough as Alaric’s words hang between us.
I shouldn’t have mentioned the money.
Nor should I have agreed to come into this man’s home and let him cook lunch for me.
Though the pasta really was delicious. At least the meal was worth the lack of oxygen I’m currently experiencing.
“I can write you a check today,” he says once the coughing has stopped and I’ve swiped away the moisture under my eyes. “Will ten grand cover it?”
Internally, I groan. If only. Not that I have the bandwidth to go through every transaction for every card and track the embarrassing financial footprint of my failed relationship.
Nevertheless, I don’t want this man’s money.
Luca has the means to pay me back. The money should come from him.
I’m not in a place where I can face him or make demands right now. But I will be one day. Eventually, I’ll get what I’m owed, and until then, I’ll figure it out on my own.
“I can’t take your money,” I tell him.
He scowls, assessing me, then rests his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers in front of him.
“Can’t or won’t?” he presses.
Okay, that’s not fair. It’s like he’s weaponizing those defined, hot-as-sin forearms against me.
I’m a strong, independent woman, but I’m also fragile right now. How am I supposed to say no when he’s flexing like this?
“Both,” I tell him with a sigh. “Luca owes me a lot: Money. Closure. And most importantly, an apology. I’m not super optimistic that I’ll ever get what I want from him, but I think I stand a better chance if you don’t take care of the money issue on his behalf.”
Alaric tilts his head thoughtfully. It’s clear by his expression that every time I mention Luca and how he’s wronged me, it cuts this man deep.
Though I’ve got to remember that it isn’t my responsibility to worry about hurting a grown man’s feelings because of the shitty actions of his son. That’s between them.
Alaric hasn’t defended him or downplayed my story, thankfully. He’s taken me at my word, never hinting at disbelief or making me feel like I’m blowing things out of proportion.
Either he knows what a scoundrel his son is, or he learned a few unsavory lessons this morning when he scooped up that crusty bottle of half-used lube.
We’re at a standstill, so I take a sip of water so I have something to do with my hands. And once again, Alaric shocks me.
“I could offer you a job.”
This time I manage not to choke, instead lowering the glass and assessing him.
Is he serious? That’s hard to believe. Yet the offer gives me pause.
All my closest friends are involved in Formula 1. One of my biggest battles over the last few weeks has been handling the grief that comes with knowing I won’t be traveling the world with Mia, Shelby, and our group of friends like I planned.
Separating from Luca meant cutting off my most direct tie to professional motorsport.
Sure, I plan to fly or drive to all the North America races, and Saint is hosting a big fundraiser for his foundation the weekend of the Silverstone Grand Prix, so even after the breakup, I planned to make it across the pond for that.
As tempting as Alaric’s offer is, it feels too easy.
Luca loves to offload his problems onto other people.
He’s a stereotypical high-maintenance fuckboy, requiring constant support from his trainer and assistant in all aspects of his career and even personal life.
Me taking a job with Granata would inadvertently take care of the damage Luca caused with his shitty choices and the consequences of our demise.
I also high-key hate the idea of seeing my ex at every race.
So with a steadying breath, I finally reply. “I would love to work in Formula 1, and maybe I will someday. But now’s not the time. I have a job and responsibilities here.”
Not that I couldn’t do the bulk of my work from anywhere. That was my plan before everything went to shit.
“Thank you for the offer,” I say. “Truly. But no thank you.”
Alaric nods simply. “Fair enough. What do you do for work?”
I sit up straighter, pride and trepidation helixing together into an anxious spiral like they always do when I talk about my job.
“I’m a small business owner,” I explain. “A solopreneur. I have a subscription channel, and I do weekly live streams where I sell my products, sort of like QVC.”
He leans in an inch or two, as if genuinely interested in my response. “What sorts of products?”
“My business is called A-Tizket A-Tasket. I offer body-doubling services through a subscription model for people like me. I also make fidgets and picky pads and sell them in an online storefront and on live streams.”
Surprise and a hint of delight dance in Alaric’s expression. “Fidgets are those little plastic toys kids play with?”
I shake my head. “They’re not toys. And while kids can use them, they’re not just for children. They are sensory tools many people rely on. Most of my customers are adults. I design subtle fidgets that people can use discreetly at work or in a social setting.”
He nods thoughtfully. “And when you say people like you…” he says, though he trails off without finishing the thought.
I appreciate the candidness, actually. I don’t mind him asking. In fact, I welcome the question, especially because he presented it without pretense.
“People like me, meaning people who are neurodivergent. I’m autistic, and I have ADHD.”
I also have a diagnosis for lack of coordination—yes, that’s a real condition—and avoidant/restrictive food intake disorder, but I don’t need to dump my entire medical history onto a man I’ve just met.
He’s quiet for a moment, and the silence sends a tiny wave of anxiety through me.
It’s a familiar sensation. One that always hits me when I talk about my neurodivergence.
I’ve known I was AuDHD since I was six. There’s no shame or confusion wrapped up in my identity or the way I view myself.
Over the years I have even learned to appreciate the way my brain works.
That doesn’t mean I like every response I receive when I disclose this information.
“I have a question, if that’s okay,” he says.
I suck in a little breath through my teeth, bracing myself, then hum out a quiet “Mm-hmm.”
It might be nothing. His question is probably harmless. But I’ve dealt with enough narrow-minded, asshole, ableist comments over the years that I can’t help but worry.
“Is it typical to be both?”
Oh.
My muscles relax on instinct.
I don’t know him well, but if I had to guess, this question is genuine, like he sincerely cares about the answer. It’s rare a person actually cares or ever asks with the pure desire to understand.
I scoot forward, fighting back the smile threatening to take over my face.
“It’s not uncommon, but every person who identifies as neurodivergent is different.
My autistic brain processes things differently than a neurotypical person’s brain.
My biggest area of differential is sensory processing.
I was born this way. I have plenty of coping tools in my toolbox, and I’m damn good at masking my differences to mold myself into what society wants and expects from me when I need to…
but at my core, I am and always will be autistic. ”
He’s intently focused on me, the curiosity in his expression encouraging me to keep talking.
“I have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, and I take medication for it with the purpose of regulating the symptoms, at least to some degree. I’ve always viewed ADHD as a disorder I have.
Therefore I have some semblance of control over it.
I can take stimulants and avoid certain foods to help with my ADHD. ”
I stop myself there rather than drone on like I sometimes have a tendency to do and lose him.
One of my many autistic special interests is talking about autism, especially in women.
Alaric doesn’t want or need to hear a whole diatribe about gendered diagnosis differentials or delayed diagnoses because of hormonal shifts.
He still looks at ease. He’s even leaning forward and studying me like he could listen to me talk for hours.
“Thank you for sharing that,” he says, the response simple but sincere.
My insides light up brightly, making me feel like I’m glowing from the inside out. I have to force myself to look away to keep myself from smiling like a fool.
“So these live streams and the products you make… is that a typical career path for an autistic person?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Some days it’s a huge, exhausting challenge, going live and having to perform for the camera. There are a lot of parts of the job I don’t like.”
Surprise courses through me the second the words are out. Did I really say that out loud to a man I just met? Pushing the uncertainty from my mind, I go on.
“But I tried a lot of other jobs before I discovered this. They were all overstimulating or way too restrictive. My nervous system was constantly dysregulated when I worked for corporations or other people. My ADHD makes me crave novelty and intensity, but then my autism makes it harder to transition and adapt. I had four jobs the summer I graduated from college,” I admit, eyes cast down at my empty plate.
“Eventually, I tried working for myself, and it stuck. A-Tizket A-Tasket has been going strong for three years. Other people have jumped into creating similar businesses, but I was the first to monetize body doubling and create a community with my fans.”
“And what, exactly, is body doubling?”
A smile breaks out on my face. I love answering this question.
“It’s another tool from the ADHD toolbox.
When you have someone to work alongside, even if you aren’t working on the same tasks or assignments, the work can feel easier.
Seeing someone else focused and on task can help jump-start executive functioning.
For my body-doubling sessions, I’ll go live or people can watch replays.
I work and they work, mostly in companionable silence. ”
“Fascinating,” he murmurs, the reverence in his tone fueling the giddiness inside me that grows the more we talk.
“I take my business seriously. I have a set schedule for body-doubling sessions, then I go live twice a week to show off new products,” I explain.
“Can I ask how long it’ll take to earn what Luca owes you?”
Like a blistered, overheated tire at the end of a race, I burst and deflate.
My business is profitable and doing well, but that’s because I know my limits. I’ve created a sustainable model that doesn’t require me to hustle the way I did when I first started.
Unfortunately, the only way to increase profits will be to find new customers for my existing services or to make new products to sell to my existing customers.
Squinting, I do the mental math. If I add in two extra lives each week and sell my usual amount of twelve to fourteen items per live, I can earn an extra thousand dollars or so each month.
But that doesn’t account for cost of product, and I might reach an oversaturation point with my existing shoppers if I don’t have new inventory to entice them with during the extra lives.
Defeated, I hold back a sigh. There are going to be a lot of late nights in my future.
Meeting his gaze again, I offer what I hope is a convincing smile. “Not long,” I contend, the words feeble to my own ears.
His eyes narrow, the dark irises accentuated by long, enviable lashes.
Those thick, perfect brows pull together until a crease forms above his nose.
Shifting forward, he gives me an intense assessment, no doubt seeing through my lie.
He opens his mouth like he’s prepared to argue, but then his phone dings on the table beside him.
He snaps his attention to it like he’s surprised to find the device sitting there and scowls. “I have a meeting in five minutes,” he grumbles, glaring at the phone as if it’s personally offended him.
He surveys me again, his expression softening.
“You don’t have to leave.” He licks his lips, gripping the edge of the table as he stands. “My meeting will take about an hour, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. We could talk some more. I could… I could make dinner.”
The offer is outlandish, but the quiet hopefulness with which he suggests it tempts me in a way I don’t expect.
It highlights that intangible pull I feel isn’t one-sided. There’s something between us—a chemistry I’m keen to investigate thanks to how easily our conversation has flowed. A small part of me would love to sit here and talk to him all afternoon.
But those feelings aren’t logical or even reasonable.
Why would I stay? What would I do while he worked? Poke around his house and search for baby pictures of my ex-boyfriend? Hang out in his garage, lounging on my grandmother’s defiled couch among all my earthy possessions and declare squatter’s rights?
No. Decidedly, I stand and take my plate to the sink without looking him in the eye again.
“Thank you for lunch, but I should go.”