Page 63 of Downforce

Alyssia waits until our waitress has placed our plates in front of us. I opted for the grilled prawn and mango salad while Alyssia went with the seared tuna. Lucky is happy with the smashed green peas Alyssia brought to feed him along with the bread.

“I don’t know,” she says, picking up our previous conversation. “Travis was telling me the other day how happy you were the day you graduated from law school. He said you had big plans to go into sports and entertainment law.”

My stomach clenches almost to the point of cramping.

When she doesn’t continue, I assume it’s because Trav didn’t give her the full story on why I left that career. In truth, Travis doesn’t know the whole story himself.

“I did,” I say, hesitantly. “I still do to an extent.”

Alyssia gives me a pointed look. She doesn’t have to say it for me to know what she’s thinking.

I’m not really working in sports and entertainment law. I’m merely my brother’s assistant. My usual excuse that I am still working in my field of choice, that I work and coordinate with professional athletes, sponsors, and agents on an almost daily basis, doesn’t quite hold up today. Not even in my own mind.

“I’m figuring things out,” I finally say to Alyssia. That’s all I can give right now.

I don’t tell her about the calls and talks I’ve had with my friend, Jen, who also questions my decision to continue working as my brother’s assistant, even though in the beginning I said it was a short-term gig.

“I understand that,” Alyssia says, her voice full of sympathy. “I was just doing some inquiry on which Ph.D. program I wanted to pursue the other day.”

Alyssia wants to get her Ph.D. in psychology to eventually work with children and families experiencing grief.

“No. I’m not going to ask you to research programs for me,” she says before the words can even pass my lips.

I hold up my hands. “I wasn’t even⁠—”

“Yes you were.”

We laugh, because yes, I was going to offer to send her some pamphlets from schools here in Europe and the States. But I know she already has that covered.

“Speaking of⁠—”

“Annalise? I thought that was you,” an unwelcome feminine voice interrupts me.

I look up toward the woman standing behind Alyssia and my smile drops instantly.

“Mrs. Ferreira,” Alyssia greets with a smile.

“Alyssia, how are you?” Max’s mother asks. “I don’t want to interrupt but I saw you two here and just had to stop by and say hello.”

I bite my tongue to keep from telling her she should’ve kept walking.

“Oh my gosh, and sweet, little Lucky,” she coos, but to my ears the enthusiasm feels forced. “They’re so precious at this age. Just you wait until they start talking. Won’t be able to get him to stop talking.”

“I look forward to hearing him speak,” I say, not looking at her. “I’m sure Alyssia does as well.”

My sister-in-law gives me a brief, questioning look before answering, “I already adore his little gurgles and the way he says ‘mama’.”

“Well,” Mrs. Ferreira stands to her full height and brushes imaginary lint away from her pink, silk top, “we all think that as new parents. I recall when Max was two years old. We couldn’t get him to stop talking. Kept his poor father and me up all night sometimes.”

My jaw begins to ache from how hard I clench my teeth together to keep from telling her to fuck off, or better yet, reminding her that he was a toddler and probably needed her attention more than her scorn.

“They don’t call it the terrible twos for nothing, I guess,” Alyssia replies.

“Or maybe it was a term coined by people who simply lacked the patience to be actual parents.”

Two pairs of eyes land on me. One full of surprise, the other full of derision. At least, that’s what I assume since I refuse to look Mrs. Ferreira’s way.

Alyssia clears her throat, throwing me another curious glance. I take a sip of my sparkling water, suddenly uninterested in my prawns.