Page 92 of On The Edge

“Good thing or it might be a miserable few months.”

She steps closer, leans her elbow on the ledge that is our barrier between us and looking down on pit row. It’s the perfect birds-eye view when Cruz comes in to pit—or box as they call it for some odd reason. The speed with which they do it is incredible.

I mimic her posture, relieved that this conversation seems to be over but still uncertain why I feel I’m missing something.

Maybe it’s a sibling thing and since I don’t have one, I don’t understand what it is.

“He likes rooftops,” she says out of the blue.

A part of me wants to tell her I know this. Another part wants to keep that knowledge to myself.

“It’s where he goes when he’s stressed or needs a break from life, from being a Navarro.”

“I know,” I say softly.

“To him, the only male heir, being a Navarro is so much more than just the name. It’s the upholding of a legacy. The continuation of a line he loves as much as he hates and some days could not give a shit less altogether.”

“Isn’t that how we all feel about family some days?”

“Perhaps.” Sofia waves at one of the crew members down below before continuing. “Let me guess. You have a mother and father. Happily married. Always been there for you. Tight-knit. That kind of thing.” I look at her. “It’s not a knock,” she says. “I’m just trying to make you understand what he comes from. Why he might be how he is.”

“Okay.” I draw the word out, my eyes moving between watching the race on the monitor and figuring her out.

“Cruz used to talk to himself when we were kids. A lot. For the longest time we thought he had an imaginary friend named Cross. My dad abhorred it. Forbade him from talking to whoever this Cross was because only weak kids did that.” She sighs and gives a slow shake of her head. “What none of us knew until he was older was that it was just Cruz talking to himself. He wanted to be Cross—his name in English. The kid who wasn’t a Navarro. Who had no expectations on his shoulders. Who could be a normal kid and not the next second coming of Formula 1. The kid whose mother loved him instead of resented him for being just like his father.”

“Sofia.” Her name sounds like heartbreak when I say it. There’s no other way to describe it as I watch the grown man battle it out on the course while thinking of this little boy who wanted to be nothing other than a kid with a different name.

She reaches out and puts her hand on my forearm. “Find the Cross behind the Cruz. He’s the good man. He’s the one he hides from the world. When you see him, you’ll know the man I love. The one I’m proud to call my brother. All of this”—she motions to the grandstands and the pomp and circumstance—“it’s just window dressing for the kid underneath who is scared to death no one is going to love him if he doesn’t perform and live up to ridiculous expectations.”

I blink away the tears that well in my eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

Her smile is as soft as her words are cryptic. “You know why.”

“I don’t. I need . . .”

“It’s clear you matter to him. If you haven’t seen it yet, you might start wanting to look a little harder.” She pats my arm and takes a step back. “I’m glad to finally have met you. Now I’ll let you be.” She points to the screen. “This is typically about when the race starts to get interesting, and there’s a podium spot calling my brother’s name.”

When she walks away, I stare after her with my head swimming with new information, new insight. I can’t wrap my head around it.

“Find the Cross behind the Cruz. He’s the good man. He’s the one he hides from the world. When you see him, you’ll know the man I love.”

But there’s a slight problem. If I find Cross, I have a feeling my heart might find he’s the man I can love too. That’s something I can’t consider . . . not when there’s no way he’ll want my heart in return.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Cruz

The car vibrates as I push it as hard as I can.

“You’re good. Push. Push. Push,” Otis says in my ear as I chase down Evans. He’s quicker than shit in the straights. Whatever issue they were having with his engine before the break has clearly been fixed.

“Two to go.”

“Ten-four,” I say as the G’s pull tight on me into the turn. “McElroy?”

“One point two back.”

One point two seconds behind me. I have to keep him there. He hits one second and he’ll gain DRS capability, and regardless of the dirty air he’s getting off my car, he’ll be able to make a run for it.