“Ready?” I ask. He nods and I place my items on the counter. I nod my head for him to do the same.
“No, I can get my own.”
I flash my card at him again. “Company card, remember?”
He sighs and places his items on the counter, giving me a look that says he’s not happy about it.
Oh, well. He’ll just have to get over it.
Not too long after, we are back on the road.
“Thanks for the snacks and getting the gas. I’m just so used to paying my own way I didn’t—I’m just…” He trails off, exhaling a breath.
“Not good at accepting help?” I finish for him. “Yeah, I’ve figured that out. You’re allowed to ask for help and accept it, Dean.”
He perks up at the use of his first name on my lips instead of his last. I think back to when he said mine for the first time at Sanford’s party and earlier. My stomach flip flops at the memory. I notice a small smile on his face, but he doesn’t say anything. I’m still lost in my own thoughts when I find him looking at me like I should respond to something he’s said.
“What?” I ask, hoping he’ll repeat himself.
“Where did you go after I left the backyard at Sanford’s party? After putting Chase to bed, I went back outside, but you weren’t there.” His eyes give off a slight sadness that I wasn’t still there after we almost kissed.
“Leslie was pretty drunk, and you seemed…preoccupied, so we got an Uber home.”
“Oh…makes sense.”
The air thickens around us, like we both know what could have happened that night if we weren’t interrupted or if I’d still been there when he was done helping put Chase to bed. I thought about it, but Leslie was drunk, and it seemed like something may have happened between her and Chase, so I used her as an excuse to leave.
“The party was fun, though,” I quickly follow up with. “I’m glad I went. Now I can properly throw a cornhole bag.”
“That’s true. Maybe if you play again, you won’t get destroyed.” We both laugh. There is a static charge between us. That if I wasn’t driving, I’d be following through with that kiss from the backyard. Since I can’t do that, I decide to ask more questions about him.
“How did you get into racing?” I ask. He seems a bit surprised at the question, but not enough to not answer it.
“My dad and I used to watch it together, and then my brother started watching with us. We went to the local races and as many Cup races as we could.” He turns to me to see if I’m still listening. I give him a nod, and he continues. “When I was old enough, I started karts and was hooked. Daniel also started karts when he was old enough, and it made it even more fun that we could all go together.”
“Was Daniel just as hooked as you?”
“He enjoyed it as a pastime, but that’s all it was for him. It’s my passion, my purpose, my—everything.” He says the last part in a whisper. It makes my heart squeeze in my chest. Not just for understanding his passion for racing, but doing it after losing someone you love dearly.
“I understand how you feel. Without racing, I don’t know what I’d do,” I agree. “What about your parents? I don’t think I’ve ever seen them.”
Most people have their family come out for special occasions at the tracks, but I know I’ve never seen him with his parents. I hope I haven’t crossed any lines by asking, but mycuriosity has gotten the better of me. And now that we are getting more personal, I want to learn what I can about him.
“That’s a more complicated story,” he begins. “But the brief version is after Daniel’s accident, they pleaded with me to stop racing, that it’s too dangerous. I just can’t give it up. So we don’t talk anymore.”
Tears sting the corners of my eyes. I blink to keep them from falling at what he’s told me. I can’t imagine not talking to my dad. I can’t imagine how that feels for him. At the same time, his parents are right. Racing is a dangerous sport. Even with all the new technology and safety measures, the risk of injury or something worse is never zero. Looking back at all the wrecks that Dad survived back in the day, before we had most of the safety equipment we do now…astounds me every day.
“Do you do any work in the shop?” I ask, changing the subject.
His body seems to relax at the change in subject. “I do. I like to know how my car works before each race. It also helps keep costs down of having to hire more people if I’m there. My parents stopped supporting me financially, it’s why I also work at the diner. Most of my winnings go back into the team, and I need to make enough for everything else.”
I feel for him; not having the support of your family must be hard. I know that if I wanted to quit racing tomorrow, Dad would fully support me no matter what. I can see how something traumatic like that would cause some tension, but cutting people out like that seems harsh.
“I can understand that. I do the same. The more I understand about the car, the better the information I can give my team during the race.” When Dean hasn’t responded, I peer over to see his jaw slacked, staring at me. “What? Stop looking at me like that.” He still hasn’t said anything. I think I broke him. “You saw me at the shop, wrench in hand.”
“I know. I just figured you had people for that,” he chortles.
“I technically do,” I explain. “I like to get my hands dirty because it mainly proves that I know what I’m talking about. Most people, like you, assume that I have people to do it all for me. I need to work ten times harder than any other man out on that track to show them I’m just as good as they are when they put in minimal effort. That I’m not just Karsen Brady’s daughter or just a pretty face.”
