“Psh!‘Protecting’? He doesnotthink the world of me. I know it hurts your feelings that we’re not all nice to each other likeThe Waltonsor something, but… yeah. No.”
Mom is quiet for a long time. Then she rolls on her side toward me and props on one elbow. “I don’t want to make you feel bad, honey, but your brother carries so much guilt since you got sick in Thailand. He’s never forgiven himself, even though he did everything he could.”
We’ve never,evertalked about this, so I’m taken aback, and instantly so pissed about her defending him that I almost launch into aHe left me to dierant, but instead I just sputter, “Everything he could?”
“My God, yes. He and that young man he talked to on the trail—a boy from Germany—they went back and hunted all over. Checked other routes and asked everyone they met up with, and… nothing. So when he rushed to get your father and tell him what’d happened and they went back to search again,a lot of time had been lost. It was your father who thought of lookingoffthe trails, in case, well, you know. He thought you might’ve been attacked. Then they found you unconscious, and good lord, honey—your brother has never stopped berating himself, ‘If I hadn’t walked away, if I hadn’t wasted time looking in the wrong places… ’”
My body is flooded with a cold, numb prickling, I’m so stunned. I can barely breathe.
Julian came back for me right away?
I’ve always assumed he fucked off without a backward glance, and no one gave two shits until he showed up without me, and it wasmy parentswho’d insisted on going back to look.
“I can’t tell you how often I’ve told him to talk to you about it,” my mom goes on. “Or even a therapist! But he’s too ashamed.”
The cold shock breaks in me, my heart is hammering, and with a keening sound I don’t even recognize as being made bymefor a few seconds, I roll onto my stomach, sobbing as eleven fucking years of anger dies and is sluiced away bythe worst fucking grief. I’ve wasted nearly half my life hating Julian, looking down on him, being resentful and competitive and just plain fuckingmean, and it was for nothing.
And both Mom and Pri are there for me, confused as fuck but comforting anyway, hugging me as I weep my stupid heart out. I can’t tell them why it hurts so bad—I hate myself too much. I think of all the times I was horrible to Jules, and meanwhile he was moaning to Mom about how he’d never get over the guilt of almost killing me.
What if we’d been close, that night in the kitchen months ago? What if I’d been a good sister, and when I saw him putting that shit up his nose, I’d first yelled at him—because, yeah, obviously I’d be mad—but then I’d hugged him and begged him to stop hurting himself? If I’d been understanding and supportive and compassionate andreal? Instead I made fun of him, shamed him, and when I paid for his rehab, acted grouchy about it.
With all the reading I’ve been doing on addiction and recovery, I understand it so much better now. I’d been convinced of all these unfair and straight-up inaccurate things, like that Julian just didn’t have the “grit and determination” to get his shit together. Learning about the psychology of addiction and the medical reality of his physical dependence, I was finally able to see that success or failure in recovery isn’t about “willpower,” or what type of person you are. The primary difference is thatthose who succeed have a support system.
I couldn’t win races based purely on willpower or mental toughness. There’s an entire team of people devoted to making my success possible. Julian needs that too. And just like being shamed for making errors during a race wouldn’t help me to do better next time, I can’t use that approach with my brother’s illness.
I’d accepted this, but there was one little part of me still resenting it—being a scorekeeper, playing a zero-sum game, just like he pointed out—because I thought he hadn’t made any effort formewhen I’d needed his help.
It’s like the last wall crumbles, and I’m relieved, but also so,sosad for everything we’ve lost, all the time wasted.
Fuck, and I also made him and Priya miserable about being in love.
I am the literal worst sister on the planet.
I want to call him right now, but I can’t; they took his phone when he checked in.
After I’ve drained myself crying, I go to the bathroom and rinse my swollen eyes with icy-cold water, then come back to bed, get between Mom and Pri again, and tell them, “On Sunday I’m getting my first fucking podium, and I’m doing it for Jules.”
Rockstar technical director Basil Rowley’s youngest daughter is almost exactly my age—her birthday is the day after mine—and I think that’s part of why he has a special fondness for me. According to said daughter, Iris (we even both have plant names), he tried to get her into racing when she was little, but it turned out swimming was her thing… like, she’s done the English Channel, for fuck’s sake. Anyway, we’ve become friends this year, and she’s here for the GP.
Early on race day, I’m in my driver’s room when Iris taps on the door and peeks in.
“Should I have texted first?” she asks, coming in and closing the door, leaning back on it. From one hand dangles her ever-present water bottle, covered in stickers.
“Hey, babes!” I go and hug her. “It’s fine. But I have to do reflex drills in like five minutes. Nice to see you—I didn’t know if you’d make it.”
Iris is a foot taller than me and looks just like Basil(fortunately without the mustache). She has strong, angular features, and her accent makes her sound like a pirate. She’s super fun—one of my favorite new people.
“Pressure’s high, eh?” she asks, crossing to a chair that’s draped in cast-off clothes and plunking down on the wrinkled mess. “You’d think Taylor Swift were at the paddock, the way fans and press are circling, all for you.”
“Oh, bullshit,” I protest with a laugh. “There’s always a ton of that at races. It’s not me specifically.”
“Nah, it’s you.Somany women with signs, every one of ’em pulling for Emerald.” She pops the straw on her water bottle and sips, smiling at me. “To say nothin’ of all the lads who fancy you. I saw two of ’em wearing shirts with your face and ‘Marry me, Sage.’”
“Jesus Christ,” I scoff.
“Speaking of boys, who’s your one in Ravenna?” she asks, pronouncing it adorably asRavenner.
I freeze in the middle of adjusting the laces on one shoe, glancing up. “What? Who?”
