“I’m an English major, which means reading and writing. And I have a part-time job at the bookstore. At the DP I spend a lot of time arguing with editors. You?”
Jonathan laughed. “I argue with race officials,” he said. “Most of the time it doesn’t matter, but I try.”
“What do you race?” I asked. “Open wheel?” I pictured a car where the wheels sat outside the bodywork, all suspension and danger on display.
He paused. Just a fraction of a second.
“Yeah,” he said. “Formula Ford.”
“What engine?”
Now his eyebrows lifted. Not surprise, but interest.
“Kent. Crossflow.”
I nodded. “Reliable. Forgiving if you don’t push it too hard. Unforgiving if you do.”
He smiled then. “Most people don’t know that,” he said. “They just hear ‘race car’ and think noise.”
“I told you my dad builds roll cages at his garage,” I said. “Weekend racers. Civics, old BMWs. I grew up sweeping metal shavings off the floor.”
Jonathan leaned back slightly, studying me like I’d just spoken a language he hadn’t expected to hear.
The food arrived. We ate for a minute in companionable silence, the kind that doesn’t rush to fill itself.
“So,” I said finally. “Why Formula Ford?”
Jonathan wiped his mouth, considering.
“Because it doesn’t let you hide,” he said. “No power steering. No assists. If you mess up, it’s obvious. And if you get it right?” He smiled, sharp and private. “The car feels alive.”
I pictured him in the cockpit, hands steady, shoulders braced against the harness, his body tuned to motion and force. The image sent a quick, unwelcome heat through me.
I took a moment to let that heat pass. “And your family’s cool with that?” I asked.
“My father tolerates it,” Jonathan said. “My grandfather loved it. Said machines tell the truth if you listen.”
I nodded. “My dad says the same thing.”
Jonathan looked pleased at that.
“You should come sometime,” he said. “Watch. Or ride along if you want.”
“I’d want to see how you take your turns,” I said. “Most people brake too late after the crest.”
He laughed.
“Okay,” he said. “Now I’m definitely asking you to come.”
We paid and stepped back out into the cold night. The streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement. Jonathan didn’t rush ahead. Didn’t reach for me either.
“I like that you know things,” he said, as we started walking. “Real things.”
“I like that you do something dangerous on purpose,” I said.
He smiled at that, slow and deliberate.
“That’s not fear,” he said. “That’s trust. In yourself. In the machine.”
