“Thanks for blocking the sidewalk, assholes.”

Did that cheap, suit-wearing, shaggy haircut-sporting motherfucker really just fucking say that as he stepped over this poor young woman?

“Hey, how’d you feel if you just landed face-first on the fucking footpath, huh?”

The goddamn bastard ignores me as he walks away. There’s little I would love more than to go after him so I can find out just who the hell he thinks he is, but I’ve got other priorities at the moment.

Like this poor lady who just took an awful-looking spill onto the walk. Watching it happen was bad enough, but that pained noise she let out afterwards just crushed me.

It’s unbelievable to me that my brother and I are the only people doing anything to help this poor lady on a crowded sidewalk. It’s sad and angering to see everyone else just walking around us. Now that we’re here, we’re going to do everything we can.

Antonio is already helping her up off the pavement as I rush over. She seems to be standing up okay, but it’s hard to tell how hurt she might be at this point.

As she’s already on her feet, there’s not much use in me going over to help as well. Sometimes there can be too many generals and not enough foot soldiers.

Antonio is there, his arm around her shoulders.

Now is the time to think fast, and within three seconds, I’m racing through the middle of the coffee shop in search of a first aid kit. Being quick enough now could prevent an infection or worse.

“May I help you?”

The voice sounds weak and ineffectual as I run behind the counter. I can’t even tell where it’s coming from, but I do spot a small, plastic first aid kid on a shelf under the register.

“You should keep this someplace more accessible,” I growl while running back towards the exit.

By the time I get back outside, Antonio is walking the young lady over to our table.

Oh, good, she’s walking. As I stride to our table, Franco walks out from behind me, carrying a glass full of ice.

Oh, well, I guess he needs to feel useful as well. Now’s not the time to be all competitive anyway.

The young woman is clearly very upset, just barely holding back tears.

This tugs at my insides. I don’t like it when women cry. She seems to be trying to explain something to Antonio who’s helping her into a seat.

“I—I…on my way to...it was…important job interview, and I...foot…caught on the sidewalk or something.”

Franco and I both approach the table as she speaks, then stand there listening with concern.

“Do you need some ice, Bella?”

Franco looks somewhat forlornly at the glass that he’s placed on the table.

The woman nods her head.

“Are you bleeding? Scraped? Bruised?”

I hold the first aid kit up in the air. “Do you need some painkillers?”

“No,” she shakes her head, putting her forehead in her hand, “no, that’s okay. I’m just going to be late for my interview.”

With those last few words, her voice begins cracking with worry and disappointment.

“We’ll take care of it,” I offer. “Do you need any of us to make call? We’ll tell them you’ll be late or whatever you need.”

On top of whatever physical pain she must still be feeling, the least I could do is try to take away her anguish about a missed appointment, of all things.

“No. Thank you, but I...I’m just not going to be able to go at all today. I missed my chance.”

“Excuse me!” Franco waves over a waitress. “An Americano for the young lady, please!”

The faintest ghost of a smile crosses her lips. As relieved as I feel to see this at first, that feeling is soon replaced by…

With a sigh, I try to fight it, it’s a feeling I hate—the feeling of jealousy.

It’s always some hideous and useless shit. It can tear people apart—from each other and from themselves—transforming them into monsters.

No, I won’t let myself feel that. But I can’t help feeling a little envious that Franco inspired that beautiful little smile...

Oh, my goodness.

She really is something else. As she chooses this moment to look at me, and we make eye contact just for a second, the rich, decadent depth of her cocoa-colored eyes transport me.

They bring me somewhere not quite of this world—similar to when I’m accelerating down a straightaway in one of Bocci’s F1s or making a hairy landing in a Cessna during a strong crosswind.

Only much fucking better than that—if that’s possible.

“What’s your name, Bella?” Antonio’s question snaps me out of it.

“Sofia.”

Her eyes are looking shyly down at the table as she utters the most beautiful, musical sound I’ve ever heard.

Sofia.

“Sofia,” I begin, and her eyes journey back up to mine.

There are no more doubts. Those eyes are so much better than any stupid fucking race car or airplane that it’s pointless to even compare.

And I’m sitting here silently while she waits for me to talk.

“What can we do for you, Sofia? How can we make your day better?”

Sofia’s eyes drop to the table. She can’t think of an answer, and that hurts almost as much as seeing her fall on the footpath.

When the waiter places her Americano on the table, Sofia looks up and smiles. That’s enough to take some of the pain away.

“I don’t know if that’s possible, I’m sorry to say,” Sofia remarks as the waiter leaves. “I can’t make it to my job interview, not like this...”

“Then come home with us.”

Franco and Antonio turn their heads towards me. I don’t think they hate that idea, but they may not have loved the way I blurted it out. They both turn back to Sofia instantly—and I can tell they’re now waiting for her response with baited breath.

“I don’t know about that.”

“We can make sure you’re okay, and we can help you reschedule your interview or help you in any way...”

“What kind of job was it, Sofia?”

It’s just like Franco to ask something like that. Although, to be fair, I’m the one inviting her to our place already.

Sofia scans the outdoor part of the café, and the footpath with her eyes.

“Uh...oh, whatever, I’ll just say it: It was for an escort agency.”

Before those words can even register in my mind, Franco already says, “Well, my lovely Sofia, this may just be your lucky day.”