Free The Truth About Delilah Blue by Tish Cohen

failure in his eyes.
    He was hit with guilt so strong it turned his stomach. The girl didn’t deserve such a father. The thought of tellingher he’d been fired—ousted by his own mind—the proof of deteriorating to such a degree rocked him with shame.
    And if it was a case of Fate stepping in, getting even with Victor Mack for choices made, well, that wasn’t fair. The past was, as they say, the past.
    A UPS courier carrying a large box trotted up the steps toward the door, and Victor pushed it open with his back, watching as the young man with the cheery pink face, razored hair, and brown shorts that revealed chubby knees hurried through. Nodded his thank you. Victor turned and watched him rush into the open elevator. “I had no choice,” Victor called as the elevator doors glided shut.
    Squinting into the morning sun, Victor started down the boxwood-edged walkway that led out to the street. On the sidewalk he stopped in front of the RoyalCrest Medical Distributors sign—a lowlying structure with raised stainless-steel lettering that Douglas had had installed a few months prior—and stared into the traffic racing past on La Cienega Boulevard. Everyone rushing, everyone needed somewhere.
    He walked to his car, settled his box in the steaming trunk, and opened the windows to let the heat escape. The steering wheel was too hot to touch, and after starting the engine, he shaded the wheel with the sun visor and blasted the fan. Waiting for the car to cool, he thought of Genevieve. She would be back now from her big trip, sitting at the front desk, pursing her lips the way she did as she shuffled papers, and glancing toward the window now and again in the hopes that a bird might finally discover the feeder she’d placed in the bleak hospital garden. If Victor were there, he’d crack a joke about Californiabirds being picky, insisting upon nongenetically modified sunflower seeds or low-fat peanuts. It would have made her smile.
    Once the steering wheel was comfortable to touch, he pulled onto Lammens Road, exceptionally busy for the middle of the day. As he approached the light at La Cienega, intending to make his usual right turn and head for home, he reconsidered.
    There was no reason to turn right.
    So he felt like his chest, his ego, his life, had been rammed with a Mini Cooper. It was no reason to avoid Genevieve. He slipped into the left turn lane and hit his blinker, inching forward in a line of three cars, hopeful he’d make the light as he watched the first car turn left.
    Seeing Genevieve had even more appeal now. She would be supportive without showing pity. She’d pat his hand, offer him coffee, tell him things would turn out fine. Knowing Gen, she’d even offer to pay for lunch, given the circumstances. But Victor wouldn’t allow it. He was still a man. He could still buy a woman a plate of spaghetti.
    The second car in the lineup made it through the turn and Victor inched forward again.
    Gen had been married before. To a man named Zig. He’d been a crack golfer, apparently, before dying suddenly of some disease Victor couldn’t recall. But that was a long time ago. Nearly a year and a half. By Victor’s calculations, it was the perfect time to swoop in. Gave her enough time to mourn, realize this really was her new life, but not so much time that she got swept away by another suitor. He couldn’t afford to face any competition. He wasn’t sure he’d measure up.
    Especially now.
    Another break in oncoming traffic and the Volvo coupe ahead of Victor swung into action, made the turn, and disappeared into westbound traffic. The light turned yellow. Victor pulled farther into the intersection and strummed his finger on the wheel. Finally, oncoming traffic obeyed the light and stopped. Just as the light turned red and he started to make his turn, two cars came out of nowhere, clearly running the light, one overtook the other, honking wildly, and they both careened through the intersection like maniacs.