Then, somehow, there are only three races left, and I have a chance of winning the championship again. But I have to finish ahead of Mahoney every single race. No one really thinks it’s possible, not the press, not the fans, not even the team.
No one except Heather, who kisses my cheek before the Brazilian GP and whispers in my ear, “You’ve got this.”
And somehow—somehow—she’s right. I overtake Mahoney on the second to last lap and cross the line a half second ahead. When I get out of the car, my eyes land on Heather, waiting with the rest of the Harper team behind the barricade. Matty is standing next to her—he retired from the race after an unlucky first lap crash—cheering as loudly as she is, and when I approach, they both pull me into a hug, Heather screaming excitedly into my ear, Matty gripping me hard enough to bruise. For the first time since Jacob broke up with me—the first time since his crash, really—I feel myself smiling a stupid, irrepressible smile.
When I’m done with the podium and the press, Heather pulls me aside and leads me to my trailer.
“Someone wants to congratulate you,” she says, and for a stupid moment I really think it’ll be Jacob.
Instead, Antony Costa’s mother is waiting for me with shiny eyes and a smile.
“Parabéns, darling. Parabéns.”
She opens her arms and I go to her, feeling a painful clench inside of my chest. She’s just tall enough for her chin to hook over my shoulder, and as I hug her, she breaks into tears, her small frame shaking.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
She pulls away after a moment and shakes her head, smiling through her tears. “Don’t apologize. I didn’t come here to ruin your exciting day.”
“You’re not ruining it,” I say. “Are you doing okay?”
“Keeping!” Matty bursts into the room before she can answer. His smile falters when he sees her. “Oh—shit, sorry—”
“No, no,” Mrs. Costa says, stepping away from me to wipe her eyes. “I’ll let you boys celebrate.”
“My parents are here,” Matty tells me. “They want to take us out to dinner.” He smiles encouragingly at Mrs. Costa. “Er—I’m sure they’d love it if you’d come, too, ma’am.”
“Oh, no,” she says.
“Yes,” I say, more forcefully than I mean to. “I mean, if you want to,” I amend hastily.
Mrs. Costa looks at me, tears shining in her eyes. After a moment, she smiles. “Well... alright. If you really don’t mind.”
An hour later, Matty, his parents Alice and Frank, Mrs. Costa, Heather, Hunter, and I are in the back room of a restaurant Mattychose, laughing as Matty and Heather argue with Hunter about whether or not plant-based meat tastes terrible.
Mrs. Costa is sitting next to me, and as the argument shifts to a spirited discussion about some TV show I’ve never seen, I lean closer to her.
“How are you doing?”
Her smile thins and she sits up a little straighter, a reflex I recognize. It’s like what I do whenever Matty asks me about Jacob. An instinct to lie, to pretend everything is alright.
“Oh, we’re getting by,” she says.
Impulsively, I reach under the table and take her hand. After a moment, she squeezes back hard.
“How is your friend, the other boy?” she asked. “Jacob Nichols.”
She says it just as the conversation around the table lulls, and Matty and Heather both glance at me.
I force a smile. “Ah—I don’t know. We... broke up.”
Mrs. Costa’s eyebrows lift in surprise. I suddenly remember her talking about church, and I feel a spike of panic. But then her expression relaxes, and a sad smile crosses her face.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize you were together.”
“It’s fine,” I lie. “It was weeks ago.”
(Nine weeks and two days, if you want to be specific.)
