VIPER || Oscar Piastri

Chapter 136

[POV: Narrator]

Andi hadn't even touched her coffee yet; It was sat on the counter going cold, as she stood with her phone pressed to her ear.

"No, Dad."

She shook her head, eyes closed.

"Because I'm not—"

"Yes, I know where the chemist is. I've lived there my whole life."

"No?! If it's Oscar you want, go ring him. I know you have his number."

"Yep, he's good. Yes, I'll tell him. Yep."

"Okay. Yep— all sorted. No, I don't—"

"For God's sake just ring him! He won't care! No, I don't care. No, I—"

"No— Dad, seven! Not nine! P.M!"

"Okay, I'll see you then. 'Kay, bye."

She hung up, shoving the phone into her pocket, and finally reached for her much-needed coffee, about to take the first sip when:

"You're not coming to LA, then."

Her hand froze halfway, cup still in mid-air.

She'd made the decision late last night, turned it over in her head until the early hours.

It took her a while to answer, but eventually she turned, pasted on something resembling a smile, and crossed the room to Oscar, who she could now see didn't look pleased. She reached up, put her hand to his forehead, checking him. "Uhm, no...," she said lightly, skipping over the details to ask: "You feeling okay? You were a bit out of it last night."

But her question went unacknowledged.

Instead, he caught her wrist and moved her hand off him, and her face twitched at the rejection — but she swallowed the feeling down fast.

"So where, then?" he asked her.

"Home, but—"

He dropped her hand.

"Until?"

"Oh, uhm... I was thinking... Abu Dhabi, probably. Maybe I'll meet you there?"

"Will you, though?"

The silence stretched. She forced herself to hold his stare, chin up. He was pissed, clearly pissed, but she wasn't going to let that startle her. Not now. Not when she'd already prepared for this conversation, so she tried to look neutral. Positive, even.

He shook his head slowly, disbelieving. "What's the reason this time?"

"It's— work stuff," she said quickly, turning toward the counter, waving it off like it wasn't a big deal. "I've got... things piling up, and I have to—"

"Work stuff." He repeated it flatly, like the words tasted foul. "That's what you're going with?"

Her jaw locked.

"That's what I'm going with because that's what's happening—!" she snapped, the sharpness cutting out of her before she could stop it.

She hated this. Hated being questioned, hated being called out when she'd already done the mental gymnastics. She'd made the choice, and now she was committing to it. She didn't want to have to explain herself — because that would mean making sense of it, picking it apart, and she couldn't risk doing that.

Her eyes were wet now, but she kept as firm as she could, refusing to fold just because he had the same disappointed look in his eye that her dad did the day she came back home after quitting.