Shantal
Since we still have a week in Rio before Imola, I tailor up the simulator to use track input from the Italian race this time. I run Darien through a lap before using the same algorithm I’ve honestly become quite fond of, to pick out his weak spots and work them on a modified track. I should be feeling fairly reassured – things are going as well as could be expected – but I’m scared instead.
Darien sees through my fear even more easily than my parents would. He drives us out to Santa Teresa the next day. I’ve only been here once before – that was when I first ran into him, back in January. Now we’re back here, where Darien lived as a child, and apparently still lives, judging from the way he sheepishly points out the small house that he proclaims is his as we roll past.
I can’t help but smile when he tells me about the places we pass. Everything is unique to the way he sees the world. He skinned both knees there the summer he and his friends triedto climb that tree, took his mum to that cinema to watchNow You See Mein Portuguese, had his senior photos snapped next to that marketplace so the Brazilian Football Confederation flags would appear in the picture.
I don’t think I can view Darien the way I did before coming to Rio. I remember thinking he was superficial, ignorant, cocky. He’d said he just wanted someone to know him as he was, and here we are.
The last place Darien brings us is the cable-car stop. I’ve wanted to get on the tram since I saw it going over the arches. So finally, we are afforded the chance, crammed on with the local passengers, at least till Darien helps us push our way to the emptier balcony area in the front.
‘What’d I do that hurt you yesterday?’ he asks quietly as the canary-coloured tram scrapes and creaks its way along. His immediate concern, for the injury and recovery causing him so muchpain, is mine.
‘You hurtyourself.’ I bite the inside of my cheek idly. ‘Nothing else. I just don’t want you suffering any more than you already have.’
‘You,’ he says with a disbelieving smile, ‘have such a strange heart.’
‘Strange?’ I lift an eyebrow as I turn his way. ‘Stranger than yours?’
‘Easily,’ says Darien. His expression gradually becomes teasing: my favourite look on him.
‘Oh, well, at least I’m not tearing myself limb from limb to roast in an open-cockpit car for two hours at a time,’ I quip. I fake indifference for all but a moment. The amusement twinkling in Darien’s eyes is too captivating. His heart is no stranger than mine. He keeps smiling, even when he knows he’s trying to turn water into wine.
The tram quivers as we leave the enormous skyscrapers and crowded housing and cross beneath an area of beautiful palm fronds, lush with vibrant shades of green.
‘How do you feel about me driving?’ Darien’s tone has sobered again when he speaks next. The seriousness throws me for a loop. His brow wrinkles, eyes almost pleading; his asking such a personal question tells me everything I need to know of his head and heart. ‘I had one of mytiassay it was too much once. Risking my life for a slice of speed. The chance to live faster than everyone else. Do you see it as …’ He gulps, and I feel my own eyebrows knit in worry as he goes on, nervous. ‘Do you see it as foolish, too?’
Did I put this thought in his head? I wonder suddenly. And if I did … does he care that much about what I think?
I reach out and cover his hand with mine. His skin is warm and, as new as this feeling is, it’s familiar. ‘Darien … nothing about you is foolish.’
He peers at my hand, and then at me, almost sceptically.
‘I see your passions as an extension ofyou,’ I go on, ‘and I could never tell you what to do with a part of yourself,’ I tell him with a gentle finality. A tentative smile flutters back to his face.
I want to be as good as my word – to stop worrying about this practice on Friday and trust him. But I also want to do all I can to keep Darien safe, and it’s jarring, incomplete in the sense it makes.
‘Hey.’ I turn to him, and his eyes meet mine. ‘Just be careful. All right?’
He nods with an adorable grin full of nothing but innocence. It’s so simple with Darien. It requires no thought. ‘When have I not been careful?’
I can’t help but stifle a laugh. He does these tiny things,beautiful things. And with them, he fills the void that loss left behind in me, piece by piece. He gives me back my courage and my voice and my smile. He makes me want to end what my mother calls my self-imposed penance andtry.At least until I remember that there is a whole other component to that penance: my plea to my parents.
‘What’s that look?’ Darien’s voice is almost singsong as he snaps his fingers in front of my face.
‘Oh …’ I let out an embarrassed chuckle. He reads me far too well. ‘Nothing. Nothing, I just … nothing.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Darien
Iroll up my sleeve and peer at the aggressive scars marring my right arm. The good thing is that they’ll be covered. The bad thing is that covering them won’t stop the questions.
We touched down in Emilia-Romagna, Italy, just hours ago, but I haven’t even had time to breathe. It’s already the hour of the annual Drivers’ Dinner, and Heidelberg Hybridge F1 Team has a reputation to uphold.
The dinner itself has been an occurrence since the rise of Revello, who consider Imola their home race. The dinner started out as a Revello tradition, with just their team around the dinner table in Fabrizio Revello’s house, but quickly grew to accommodate all the drivers on the grid when the Grand Prix was established in 2020, and then morphed into a full-blown gala featuring the core members of all ten teams. Press wanted to see the teams parade around in formal wear, and principals wanted to get hot gossip fresh out of the oven. The Drivers’ Dinner was the perfect opportunity for both.
I grab my suit jacket off the bed and slip it on. The jacket and slacks are a matching navy blue, with the Heidelberg logo over the breast: a coat of arms like the distant cousin to Revello’s, the Heidelberg family crest. All three of us drivers will match with the white dress shirts and navy suits to echo Heidelberg’s aqua and white colour scheme, although I decide a bit of bling is also required. I pair the suit with small gold hoop earrings to match my cross. The finishing touch: a Patek Philippe I bought last year with my first P1 bonus. Appearances are everything at these events. Heidelberg has the facilities now, but we also need to show that we, as drivers, are on top of our game – classy, professional, put-together.
