Page 50 of Out of Control

“But still. Why were you on your own at sixteen?”

“Racing was an expensive sport. It was either putting money into the car and growing myself and my brand or using what I earned to go back and forth between wherever I was and home.” He takes a sip and hisses at the heat. He gives the slightest of shrugs. “We didn’t have much, so I decided to ease the burden on my family and not go back. I sent the money I made or won back to help out. I kept a little for myself and I couch surfed from one place to the next in between races.”

“With whom?”

“Crew members. Friends I’d made along the way. Other drivers’ families.”

I stare at him but don’t equate the man before me with someone who was essentially homeless for years on end. He was one of the best of his class and yet . . .

“It’s not a sob story, Sofia. It was a choice. I lied to my parents so they thought I was taken care of. And I was fine. I had a dream and wanted to live it, and they wanted that dream for me but couldn’t afford it. We all make sacrifices to get what we want.”

He is so matter of fact but I knew him back then. I saw him at races when he competed against Cruz and I had no idea. Absolutely no clue that he was living how he was living.

“I know, it’s just . . .” I shake my head and take a small bite of the croissant. “You could have slept in your bed last night.”

He chuckles. “I didn’t divulge that to make you feel guilty for sleeping in it. And it was testing my restraint enough to have you in my house and not be able to touch you. Don’t kick a man while he’s down. Besides, the last thing you needed was to wake up in a strange place feeling uncomfortable that I was there.”

“Rossi. We’ve slept together—”

“You can stop reminding me of that. It would do me a lot of good if you did.” He mock groans as he adjusts himself where he sits in his seat but his ghost of a smile is there. As is the look in his eyes when he angles his head to the side and studies me.

It’s the weirdest feeling but I’ve never felt more seen in my life.

“Tell me about it,” he says quietly.

He just sits there quietly and looks at me. I get the sense that he’s hurt or upset over something I don’t quite understand, and I don’t know what it is. “Tell you about . . . what?”

“The gallery.”

“Oh.” Why does the mere mention of it make me feel vulnerable in front of him?

“Why are you hiding it? Why wouldn’t you tell me that was the work that brought you here? Why did you seem embarrassed about it when your brother brought attention to it last night?”

“It’s complicated.”

He smiles. “Try me.”

“Jumping off a cliff into the unknown is scary, is it not?”

“Yes, but if you’re opening a gallery, I’d assume that’s because you are either educated on, acquainted with, or thoroughly enjoy art. Or all of the above. And if that’s the case, then it’s not really the unknown, now, is it?”

I go to open my mouth, to refute him, but know he’s right. “I think it’s more the stepping into new territory. Setting myself up for failure. Doing something a Navarro doesn’t do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Something outside of racing.” My smile is bittersweet but a small part of me feels relief that I actually just admitted that. Out loud. To someone other than myself.

A huge lump balls in my throat, and it’s hard to swallow over the emotion lodged there.

He nods, his eyes full of understanding. “I’d think they’d be thrilled you are wanting to make your own way. Carve your own path.”

“There is a precedence for what’s expected. Going rogue is not that.”

“And why not?”

I purse my lips and fight off my family’s unspoken answer. Because that is what my mamá did. Took off. Carved her own path. Cheated on our papá. Fell more in love with the drink than her children. Is determined to fuck over every member of the family in one way or another.

Taught me that those you love the most, leave.