Page 24 of Over the Limit

There’s something about her tonight. Just like there was outside the party. She seems different when she’s not around Rossi. As if she isn’t holding herself back.

“So yeah, we’ve moved around a lot, from country to country, from base to base. Luckily, they’ve been stationed in Italy for a decade now.”

“Was that hard? The constant moving?”

“The truth? Starting at a new school wasn’t too terrible because there were so many of us, and that meant we had a built-in friend group in each other.”

“That’s definitely a plus.”

“I mean, I’ll admit there were a lot of averted stares and whispers over how many kids the Carmichaels had . . . but once they got to know us, it was fine.”

“I didn’t think of that aspect of it.”

“But that’s why I have the bottle caps and wine corks. A way to remember little details that I know I’d forget if given the chance. My keepsake box of trinkets of sorts.”

Someone who stops and smells the roses and then takes a petal to remember them by.

Kind of fucking cool. Not like many people do that these days.

The woman has moved around her whole life, and yet she’s been able to take something good, and found relevance, in cataloging those memories so she wouldn’t forget them.

She’s fascinating. Simply fascinating.

I’ve been all over the world time and again and have nothing to show for each visit save for another race . . . and a few trophies. There are distinct memories tied to those, but if I had to recall other specifics, no doubt they’ve all faded with time.

Bottle caps and wine corks. I kind of like the idea. A small token as a reminder of something time will erode from the memory.

Silence settles between us and I feel something I haven’t felt in the longest time when it comes to a woman.

Panic.

Panic that she’ll decide to head to bed. Panic that whatever this is will be over because as much as there can’t be anything here, something still is.

I scramble for my next question. Anything to keep her talking and to maintain this feeling. “What was your favorite country you were stationed at or have lived in?”

“All of them. Is that the chickenshit way to answer you?” She laughs. “Probably Italy.”

“Good choice.”

“We were there the longest—my family is still there—and so I was able to meet more people and make more memories.”

“Makes sense.”

“That’s actually where I met Rossi.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I think I told you we used to frequent the local track. It was a cheap way to entertain all of us kids. There was a hotshot race car driver working his way up through the circuit who’d be there at times.” She shrugs. “We met. Became friends. Then more than friends . . . and since then have kind of been together.”

“Kind of?” I take a sip. “That doesn’t exactly sound like . . . whatever it sounds like,” I say, stopping myself from prying.

She gives another shrug and looks around the bar before coming back to meet my eyes. It’s the quickest of glimpses and I know I’m probably reading into it way more than I should, but I swear to God I see something there. A moment of uncertainty that makes me think that all isn’t exactly what it seems.

“That sounded bad, didn’t it?” She shifts in her seat, her knee touching mine a constant reminder of how fucking close we are. “It’s just . . . like I implied before, there’s a lot of history between us. Between our families. He’s been a constant in my life in one way or another since we met. Since we left home. Since we started our careers. And while we may have been off again and on again more times than we can count, he’s just Rossi. Always there.”

Always there. You hear that, Lach? Focus on that. On the truth behind it.

“And now you live in Monaco?”