Looks are subjective. Incidental at best. I’d argue no one could reasonably claim Tippi is lacking there, but what unnerves me is the implication that she sees something in the rest of me too.
What can someone likeherpossibly see in someone likeme? I’m aware that opposites attract, but this is ridiculous.
We reach the track car park before I’ve come close to answering that. The place is already busy, all dusty gravel, rows of cars, and the distant crackle of a PA system. A muffled “Summer Nights” fromGreasefloats from somewhere ahead.
Tippi slams the door with casual energy and tucks her keys into her back pocket, where her hands stay. It does outrageously compelling things to the lines of her body. She strolls toward the entrance like she’s been here every day of her life, even though I know it’s her first speedway.
I walk beside her, a half-step back, trying to recall the small list ofquestions I prepared in my phone’s notes app like the world’s least sexy crib sheet. Better prepared than fumbling.
“So, why speedway?” I manage, once we’re weaving through the crowd toward the ticket booth. “Out of all the possible activities.”
“Why not?” she says, with a friendly shrug. “I saw the flyer, I’ve never been, and it looked fun when I caught it on the sports channel once.”
I find that sort of easygoing decision making… bewildering. “So you just decided to go? What if you buy a ticket and don’t like it?”Or don’t like me, my brain adds helpfully.
“I don’t get bored,” she says simply, like it’s an empirical truth.
I believe her. Tippi Mills would find a way to make filling in a tax return entertaining.
At the ticket window, I insist on paying. The idea of her covering everything makes my skin crawl in a way I can’t quite explain. If the evening is a disaster, at least she won’t be financially out of pocket.
That noble intention lasts about three minutes.
She darts over to the food vans and returns with two bacon sandwiches and a shared portion of chips before I can even locate my wallet. The twenty-pound note coming out of her bra does something unfortunate to my autonomic nervous system, and I force myself to look away.
“Thank you,” I say faintly as we walk toward the seating. I catch myself staring as she zigzags sauce over her share of the chips: ketchup, burger sauce, mayo, barbecue, mustard, all in thin overlapping lines until the potatoes are barely visible.
The right corner of her mouth lifts when she catches my expression. “A little of everything is my way of life.”
Of course it is.
I add a modest amount of ketchup to my own half of the tray. “Just what I need, and nothing more.”
“That tracks.” Her dimples appear; I can vividly picture them being the death of me. “Speaking of tracks,” she gestures faintly toward the circuit, “where d’you wanna sit?”
The oval is ringed with an inflatable safety barrier, the generators that keep it inflated growling behind us. Concrete steps climb up in wide tiers, and there’s a section of bleachers cordoned off for people who paid extra. The sun is slow dancing with the horizon, streaking the sky peach and pale blue, clouds smeared like finger paint.
“I think the best view, mathematically speaking, will be just there.” I point to the first bend. “We’d be able to see most of the track from that angle, but it’s a bit crowded.”
“Mathematically speaking?” Her eyes light up, amused.
“Yes.” I shrug, abruptly aware I’ve shown myself up as the chronic overthinker I am. “Optimal line of sight.”
“Good to know.” The look she gives me is… not bored, and not patronising. It feels almost like appreciation, and settles in a pleasantly warm spot in my chest that I didn’t know was empty.
We find a space on the steps near the bend, just back from the front row. Tippi smiles at the people around us, and more than one man looks at her like a dog that’s just spotted an unattended steak. I give a few of them what I hope are discouraging looks. I have noidea what I’d do if one responded, but still, the gesture is made.
“You’re right,” she says once we sit. “Thisisthe best view.”
Her approval makes me absurdly pleased. Using my particular way of seeing the world to improve her experience feels… good. Like I’m being useful. And in the absence of confidence or charm, I’ll take utility.
While we’re waiting for the first race, I mentally scroll through my conversation prompts. “So you’re not spending every day with your family while you’re here?” I hadn’t expected her to have time for a coffee, let alone a night at the speedway circuit, given how rarely she’s in the country.
“Nah.” She licks sauce off her finger and I have to look away for a second because, in the most respectful way,uunnnnnfffff. “I spend most of my time with them, especially the kids, becausegaaaaah, I love them. But I’m restless as hell. I want todothings while I’m here. So once RhiRhi’s asleep, I’m free to wander.”
I’ve never done that. Wandered for the sake of it. I go where I’m going, do the thing I’m there to do, then go home. The idea of just walking around to see what happens feels alien.
But it also makes my way feel a little… tragic, by contrast.
