Veronica didn’t argue.
Standing in front of her suitcase, she stared at the ceiling, hands on her hips. “She needs me, Ronnie, and I need her, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I can truly be there to cheer her on, hold her hand, and help. And I can do it in the right way.”
“She has been struggling. That part’s true. She misses you.”
“I miss her, too.” She took a deep breath. “And I’m ready.”
Sloane exhaled and reached for her passport, sliding it into the outer pocket of the suitcase. There was a flight late that afternoon that would have her in Barcelona by midmorning their time, in plenty of time for the race.
She zipped the suitcase closed and rested her palm on it for a moment, grounding herself. No rush in her body. No spike of adrenaline. Just intention.
“I’ll text you when I land,” she said into the phone.
“I’ll be there,” Veronica replied. “In more ways than one.”
“I know.” Sloane smiled, small but real. “Thank you for trusting me to know when it was time.”
“That’s the thing,” Veronica said gently. “You didn’t rush back to the fire. You learned how to stand near it again. Proud of you for that. Travel safe.”
“Thank you, Ronnie. See you soon.”
She moved through the apartment slowly, deliberately—checking the back door, setting the coffee mug in the sink, straightening the throw blanket on the couch without thinking about it. Ordinary motions. Anchors.
She paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame, and took stock of herself the way Lindsay had taught her to. Chest open. Breath even. No bracing. No rehearsal of disaster.
This wasn’t about proving anything. It wasn’t about erasing what had happened or pretending she was fixed. It was about showing up honestly.
She rolled her suitcase down the hall, the sound soft and ordinary, and stepped out into the day.
By the time the plane lifted off, Sloane felt settled in her seat, hands resting easily in her lap. She looked out the window as the city fell away, not replaying the past, not racing ahead.
Just moving forward.
Toward Reese.
Toward the life they were still building, one step at a time.
CHAPTER 31
ONE STRAWBERRY SMOOTHIE
Reese wanted to start race morning by looking through the photo album on her phone, the one that contained photos of her and Sloane from various cities. Her favorite was the one in Monza at the little wine and cheese place where Sloane was smiling into the camera with her arms around Reese’s neck, and Reese was smiling at Sloane. A little crooked, like she’d forgotten the camera was even there. It was a memory she held onto and pulled out when she needed to drift away to a happier moment.
But she wouldn’t be doing that today because the stress of her current reality was adding fractions of a second to her lap time, so anything that would tug on her brain had to be shelved until after the race.
She had prep to get through and that started now.
Barcelona’s morning air carried a hint of salt from the Mediterranean, warm already despite the early hour. The paddock hummed with its usual race-day rhythm—generators buzzing, radios crackling, the low thrum of engines being woken up. Somewhere, an air wrench barked to life, sharp and sudden. Reese moved through it all like she was stepping across thin ice. Careful. Deliberate. Not allowing herself to fall through.
Sixteenth.
The number had sat beside her name on the timing sheet yesterday like an accusation. She’d told the media it was “a learning weekend.” She’d told Julie they were “still dialing it in.” She’d told herself to stop spiraling.
Two races out of the points. Sixteenth on a circuit where overtaking wasn’t exactly a gift. And a brain that insisted on replaying every almost-text, every unfinished conversation with Sloane.
She adjusted the strap of her backpack higher on her shoulder and ducked into the hospitality unit, grateful for the blast of air-conditioning. Fuel first. Smoothie. Hydrate. Review data. Visualize starts. Brake markers into Turn 1. Stay out of chaos.
Simple.
