He reaches out and rests a reassuring hand on my arm. ‘It’s okay. I get it. I feel a bit turned round as well. I guess we can only do our best, right?’
I nod. He’s wise well beyond any of our years.
Behind him, Miguel stands up from his simulator, eyes wide and fixated on the door on the other side of the sim room. Henri follows his gaze, to equal surprise.
‘Look,’ Henri says, gesturing to the door.
I turn around, and I inhale, but the air doesn’t want to come back out.
Darien is back.
Diana was the only one who had been able to get into the room to talk to Miguel immediately after he regained consciousness. She’d come out of there looking rattled, and walked over to Celina and me.
‘Shantal.’ She looked me dead in the eye, despite knowing nothing about me save for that much – my name, and that only because Celina must have introduced me when she arrived. She’d barely been in the waiting room a second before making the determined march down the hall to where Darien was resting. A part of me was bewildered by her, but the other part could pick out the warmth in her eyes, the kind of amity you only found in very specific people.
I had just stood there, silent, wide-eyed, until she spoke.
‘He’s desperate. He’s said he’ll do anything to be back for the season. Will you?’
When he said he would do anything, I was not too sure of what that would entail. He’d undergone surgery, with pins in the wrist and stitches. It was a lot for anyone to handle.
And the fact that he is here now means that he was in hospital for less than a week. The physicians must have been livid when he wanted to get out. He wears a hoodie, but I can see his cast still peeking out from beneath the right sleeve. His hair is wet, freshly washed. His face still bears evidence of scratches and bruises, cruel mementos of the crash that we hope has not ended his career.
I don’t know quite how to feel.
My emotions were already a minefield before the accident. But now, this decision Darien has made – and the force that compelled me to agree to it, to tell Diana I’d help him get back to driving form in a mere month and a half – causes me almost more pain than seeing him hurt to begin with. This is such agruelling path. I can barely face the struggle, even though it’s Darien who has already taken the first step by breaking out of hospital in half the time he was supposed to.
‘Hi,’ he says.
I’m unable to move from my spot. The guys immediately rush over to him, checking to make sure he’s okay, giving him hugs filled with relief and brotherly care, but it takes me a moment to remember how to walk.
When it comes my turn to speak to Darien, I search for words that don’t come to mind. I’m able to do little except wrap my arms around him and let the touch convey what I can’t say. I feel him hold me tight with his good hand, his palm against my back.
‘I’m glad you’re back,’ I tell him. ‘But—’
‘I chose this.’ His breath is warm on my ear. ‘It’s okay. I’m okay.’
‘Go see Celina,’ I whisper. ‘Go get started.’
‘Yeah.’ I don’t want him to stop holding me the way he does, and I know I should resist it, but after this close a call, after everything that the past week has thrown at us, I can’t. I don’t have the strength to put up walls, at least not now. ‘I’ll see you.’
We watch Darien head back down the hall, and Miguel says to me, in a hushed tone, ‘He’s going to try?’
‘You know how he is.’ I press a hand to my temple, where a throbbing headache has begun.
Miguel, for the first time, at least to my knowledge, appears somewhat vulnerable. He looks back at the sims, with weary eyes that have known these trials and tribulations before. ‘He can’t live without the race, can he?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Darien
‘Grab the ball, Darien. Come on. You can do this.’
Celina leans forward as if anticipating something. What she thinks will happen, I don’t know. I’ve been trying for almost ten minutes. And this is the third day I’ve been back. The team gets on the road tomorrow, and I’ll be joining them, for no good reason other than I think I’d disintegrate if I had to stay here any longer, wallowing in self-pity. My arm can barely extend itself. The stupid ball is all the way at the other end of the table.
‘Reach out.’
‘I’m trying!’
