I laugh, pressing a palm to my forehead. ‘Yes, I want to see the cars. Let’s go.’
The Prince of Monaco’s car collection is sheltered in a museum in La Condamine. Inside, everything from the oldest of automobiles to modern Formula 1 cars is on display. What draws our eyes right away is a sleek black F1 model detailed with purple and white, as well as a host of sponsors. I recognize a makeup brand, one of my favourite sustainable choices, and an energy drink logo.
‘Diana’s 2022 Championship-winning Jolt,’ says Darien in total awe. ‘Imagine you make history, and then you get to say that your car is on display in the prince’s collection.’
I smile when I realize that there’s a childlike dreaminess in his expression, one I’ve come to appreciate deeply. I came to Heidelberg completely clueless, and now I’m determined that this man should see the highest level of success this season.
Once we tear our eyes away from the cars, we decide to walk the city. Darien’s been here before, and he navigates it with ease. He points out all the big casinos, located around turns of the racetrack. Monaco itself is small enough that the grand prix spans almost the entire country – a strange thought. His fingers lace themselves through mine, and his thumb runs over the ridges and dips of my knuckles while he shows me a huge painting on the side of a small local restaurant. It’s a remnant of last season, a section of track curving down the wall of the building, with Formula 1 cars of different liveries zooming along it so they appear to jump out from the mural.
When the coast comes into view, Darien tells me about all the yachts, massive leisure vessels decorated with flags and glossy gold names on their bows. He picks out the ones herecognizes by their owners, and I laugh when we see Miguel’s yacht, with the apt nameLady Diana.
‘You think he’ll notice if we hop on?’ I prod Darien with a chuckle.
That devilish look creeps over his face, the kind you might see on a five-year-old plotting to colour all the walls hot pink. ‘Well,’ he shoots me a smirk, ‘what Miguel doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’
‘Oh, my – Darien!’ I call as he rushes across the dock dramatically, vaulting over the edge of the boat and landing on the floor with a cheerful little thud. I could scold him, but I’m too amused to do anything but follow. He’s happily raiding Miguel’s beautiful yacht, popping open cabinets and mini-fridges on the inside till he finally emerges victorious, a bottle of – is that alcohol or water? – raised triumphantly in one hand.
‘Drinks all round,’ the menace proclaims as he grabs a picnic blanket off one of the benches, spreading it out on the ground. ‘He’s owed me this ever since I beat him in Bahrain.’
I bite my lip, but a loud laugh escapes anyway. ‘Please, Darien, pour some drinks, why don’t you?’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Darien
‘Iwasn’t sure if I should be glad or disappointed that was non-alcoholic, but I think I’m just glad now.Italian soda.’ Shantal helps herself to another full glass of the carbonated water I’d brought out with a contented sigh, drizzling pineapple syrup on top. ‘Rich people, I tell you.’
‘We need to get you onto more de la Fuente yachts,’ I remark with a sip of my own drink – mango. Can’t beat a Guaraná, but it’s delicious.
‘Without permission,’ she adds.
I bring a finger to my lips. ‘He doesn’t have to know.’
She rolls her eyes, but she laughs that beautiful uncontrolled laugh. I watch her smile, looking out across the rippling water at the yachts beyond. Straight out of a dream. Her toothy grin, the satisfied little sounds she makes with each sip of soda. Indescribable.
‘I’m aware alcohol isn’t something you drink during theseason, but what if you had to choose a go-to drink?’ asks Shantal, swirling her glass idly.
‘Probably … I think it has to be rum.’ I scratch my jaw as a fond memory creeps into the back of my mind. ‘Was myvô, my grandpa’s, favourite, and then my dad’s. He’d bring it home for my mom all the time. It’s one of those things I remember.’
‘When’d you lose him?’ she asks, which catches me only slightly off-guard. People like to tiptoe around the topic. I think part of it is just because it used to make me really upset that I didn’t recall the important things, what he was like and all of that. All I’ve got is foods and cars.
‘I was about six, maybe. Don’t really know too much, just that it was pretty sudden.’ I have to struggle to bring back what Tio Julio told me, because it was so freaking long ago. My mom never talks about him, ever. ‘It was weird because he raced so much, you know, in the street and stuff. And then he was on the way to an interview – he was gonna get a real job, get us out of the city – and it just …’ I shrug. ‘I don’t think I’ve got any kind of recollection of that. It’s all stuff I was told.’
Shantal nods. Her eyes have gone misty. I wonder how we got straight to the most depressing topic in the book like this, but it doesn’t seem to be treating her too well. She holds her glass gingerly, no longer too interested in its contents.
‘Do you ever just feel bad?’ she says. ‘For moving on?’
I take a big gulp of my soda to keep myself occupied for a good minute. It’s like she knows exactly where to get me, the parts that need healing. Then, ‘Every day.’
‘Why?’
‘I feel bad I didn’t know him, mostly.’
‘What do you do about it?’
‘Nothing, I guess.’ I finish off the last of the drink and set theglass aside. ‘I’ve grown up with everyone telling me my dad was my best friend. WhatdoI do about that? Can’t turn back time and get to know him all over again or something.’
‘Would you, though, if you could? Turn back time?’ she asks.
