“Fuckin’ hell.”
My throat cramps, and I tip my head up to look at the tree. “And Ihaven’ttold Jules I love him, no. Which I do. But… I also hate him, because he let me almost die once and I can’t forgive him.” I pinch my nose with the napkin again. There’s a long enough silence that I look at the phone. “Um, Sandy? Don’t be disappointed in me. I know it sounds shitty—”
“It’s not that. I just wish I could hold you right now. You can’t be that far away. Could you come back? And tell me more about this?”
“No,” I say miserably. “I have to go to work.”
“Understood.” He sighs again. “I very much want to see you though.” He does a little throat-clear. “Thereisanother race before Spain. I could come to Miami. A plane ride is a plane ride, and… frankly, the thought of not seeing you for a month has me wretched.”
NowIgo quiet, because I don’t know if I can say the next part.
“Salvi, love?”
“I… I need a month. Because I’m feeling sort of, um,too attached.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “Truly?”
“Yeah, but don’t get all pleased with yourself. I don’t know how this is even happening. You’re, uh… you’re way less of a dick than I thought, I guess.”
“Damning with faint praise, but cheers,” he returns, amused.
I roll my eyes. “Why aren’t you just an asshole? It’d make things so much easier if you were still the ‘yourself’ I thought you were months ago.”
In a sort of pensive tone, he says, “I’m unsure if I even know the ‘myself’ I thought I was months ago.” His next words are lower, and I strain to hear them over the insect-shrieking noise. “I find I’m a person I like a lot better when I’m with you.”
It’s so similar to what I thought about myself last night, while we were talking at the restaurant, that I’m stunned. To stop from confessing it, I switch to teasing him.
“You know, your douchebaggery is so legendary that Cosmin does a hilarious impression of you. He told me about one time before he and Phae were official and you tried to give him advice about women, and you were all, ‘Let her see you with some hotties! Make her jealous! Chicks dig it!’” I laugh at the bad, confused mashup of accents I’m trying for—a Romanian guy trying to sound like a British guy trying to sound like an American frat boy. “He told me he threatened to give you a beatdown.”
Alexander laughs, and it sounds like both relief and embarrassment. “Guilty as charged. I was trying to impress him and ended up looking like a twat. Which… well, historically it’s a thing I do far too often, and I’m not proud of that. It’s not who I want to be.”
For a half minute, we’re silent, just being with each other. I swear, if he coaxed me a little, I’d point this fucking car east again…
“You really prefer to wait until Barcelona?” he asks softly.
No! I don’t even want to wait until tomorrow.
“Yeah, definitely. Sorry.” My eyes sting, and I rub them with a thumb and forefinger.
“I’ll be counting down the days.” After a pause, he adds, “And as long as we’re making confessions… erm, regarding what I mentioned when you were in the shower… I may never have said those words to a woman—notyet—but I absolutely have thought them of late.”
My heart hammers, and I put my hand on my chest, wondering if I’ll be able to feel it right through my sternum like a cartoon. I force a carefree laugh. “Clear air, smooth track. Let’s just not fuck it up.” I start the car’s engine and rev it loud to drown out the wobble in my voice when I say goodbye, then whip back onto the road in a spray of dust and gravel.
MIAMI
Home race is always a big deal, not only because you want to do well, but also the added pressure is you want specifically tonot suck. There have been so many drivers who completely stink up the track at their home race, and the media are rarely kind about it.
Florida is just about as far as you can get from my actual home and stay on the same landmass, but it’s still a home race. Definitely couldn’t have Sandy tagging along, making me all scatterbrained and puppy-lovey. Also my mom is coming to stay with me and Priya in my suite, and I’m super stoked to hang out.
The morning she’s scheduled to arrive, early in the race week, she sends a message that makes me nervous:Your dad isn’t coming along and I have something we need to talk about.
Um, fuck.
I didn’t expect my dad to come to Miami, because he’s usually too busy with work. The fact that my mom explicitly mentioned it, along with the vague “something we need to talk about,” doesn’t bode well. And it must be serious—a thing she’s afraid I’d find out anyway if she didn’t deliver the news—because otherwise she knows not to stress me out before a race.
Pri goes to pick Mom up because I’m in a bunch of back-to-back training sessions, then a team meeting, and won’t be able to see her until early evening. When I open the door of the suite, I smell her presence right away, but it’s nice, not one of those lady perfumes like a sickening fog of flowers. Mom uses this berry-scented hand lotion, and her normal person smell is a little like bread baking, so there’s that too, and I’m tired and sore but I relax immediately, before I even have the door closed.
“Sagey!” she cries out, hurrying out of the main bedroom on the left. She looks energetic, and that’s great because now I know the bomb she’s going to drop on me can’t be that she’s sick. She has a new haircut with highlights in it, and it takes about ten years off her. She’s also toned-looking in a top that bares her shoulders and arms, like she’s actively been at the gym and not just taking her usual walks.
