YOUR TIRES DIDN’T GET THE MEMO
FRANKIE
Lucia wins. I head to the garage to congratulate her and am shocked that Dad and Adelaide aren’t there. Whatever words were exchanged when he followed her out of the hotel earlier today, they obviously made things worse instead of better. Dad has never not been in the garage, on the pit wall and by her side as soon as she finishes a race.
I slip past her engineers and mechanics and wrap her in my arms. She hugs me back. “You are on fire.”
“I got lucky on turn four in the first lap and was almost overtaken in the fifteenth,” Lucia is always her biggest critic. “And if it wasn’t for that safety car being deployed after Hastings hit the wall, the results would have been different.”
“You always focus on the bad,” I reply and smile and hand her a soda from my newest sponsor. It’s a vegan soda company. So far, the one flavor I can tolerate is black cherry, but I’m hoping my sister likes the other flavors.
She tips back the raspberry one and makes sure the label is visible for the photographers.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“You owe me,” she whispers back when she finishes taking a sip. “This tastes like ass.”
“So it’s not just me.” I sigh. “I didn’t have time to taste all the flavors. I liked the black cherry one, so I just said yes. Fuck.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just promo the hell out of that one flavor,” Lucia says and pretends to take another sip, but I can tell she isn’t letting the offending liquid past her lips.
“Go, enjoy your victory,” I take the bottle from her and give her another quick hug before she runs off to do the podium. I make my way to where her F2 crew is gathered at the bottom podium and stand with them as they play the French national anthem and give Lucia her trophy. The whole time, as I lean on the barricade, I make sure to hold the soda with the label facing out.
When the ceremony is over, I blow Lucia a kiss and make my way to a quiet corner of the garage. I ignore yet another call from Jennie, who is furious I’ve been neglecting my influencer contracts, and call my father immediately. “I get that you two are not on the same page right now, but you’ve never missed one of her races, Dad.”
“She doesn’t want me there,” he huffs. “She told me flat out.”
“Doubtful.” Lucia and I made a pact after our mom died to never shut out our dad or each other. She wouldn’t break that now over a baby. Even if we were kind of blindsided.
“Well, she might as well have said it. She doesn’t support my marriage, Frankie, and I’ve had enough of it. From both of you, so know if you take her side, I will start pulling away from you too,” Dad warns.
“This is how you make a problem worse, Dad,” I explain through gritted teeth because I am furious. This is the vortex of hell that can come from second marriages and mixed families. It doesn’t have to, but it can. “Look, we knew one day you might remarry. We wanted you to be happy and in love again. We just didn’t get what we were expecting, and now there’s a baby thrown in that we didn’t hear about from you. So give us a minute, okay? Especially Louie. You know she doesn’t handle change well. It like shorts out her brain or something. Don’t escalate this hurt into something we can’t mend.”
“I’m giving Lucia some much needed breathing room.” He hangs up before I can argue with him further.
I sigh and open up the alert that says I have fourteen text messages. They are all Jennie.
Hello? Can you tell me when your next break is so I can book you a flight to Amalfi so we can do that promo with the yacht company?
You made me Google the race schedule. Thanks for nothing. Booking you on a flight Monday. Ok?
Hellllloooooo?! OK? Please respond asap.
Fuck it. I booked you. If it’s wrong YOU can rebook it.
The texts go on and increase in profanity because she’s asking more questions about other promo stuff, and I am not responding, and then finally, they end on a positive note.
At least you remembered to promo the soda. Yay.NOW ANSWER ME.
I text her back while I take my position on the pit wall in the garage and wait for our race to begin. Rocco is in some deep conversation with Rhett, one of our other engineers. I put on my headphones and tune out the world as I answer the million personal business questions Jennie has not so patiently thrown at me in the last twenty-four hours. I feel horrible about blowing her off. I know she’s just doing her job, and I know I’ve been shit at balancing my influencer stuff and the race team stuff, which I promised her wouldn’t happen. I have a pile of new shoe designs to approve or reject sitting in an unopened envelope in my suitcase back at the hotel, too. I promise myself I will work on that while I fly to the Amalfi Coast for that yacht photo thing and then do more work on the flight to Mexico for the next race.
I’m deep in my own work-zone, still glued to my email, when there’s a tap on my shoulder. “Are you the Team Principal today or not? Because I’ll gladly step in if you aren’t going to pay attention.”
“What?” I blink and put my phone in the back pocket of my jeans.
“They’re doing the formation lap. Are you in this or what?” Rocco demands, annoyed. I wish I could blame him, but I can’t. I’m fucking up every which way today.
I ignore him but turn to the wall of screens and flip on my radio so I can hear the drivers, and they can hear me. “Okay, remember boys. Plan A unless I announce otherwise.”
