Page 117 of Off the Grid

“Just admit it. This is your go-to spot where you bring women to impress them.”

“Huh. Never had to impress a woman until now,” he jokes.

Or at least I think he jokes, but the look on his face says otherwise.

“Seriously. You’ve never brought a girlfriend here before?”

“Nope. Never had a girlfriend to bring here.” He takes a seat.

“You’re full of shit.”

He’s never had a girlfriend? With those looks and that charm? And the skills in the bedroom?

“Camilla, just come out and ask whatever it is you’re asking.”

“I’m not asking anything. But if you expect me to believe—”

“Have I dated? Yes. Have I had my time with one-night stands? Yes again. Have I ever had a serious girlfriend? No,” he says with a resolute nod. “I’m too busy trying to chase this dream. Too busy focusing on me and all I need to get here and stay here—that it wouldn’t be fair to someone to be with them, but to not make them my number one priority. Does that answer your non-asked questions?”

“Um. Yeah. Sure.”

“C’mon. Sit.” He tugs on my hand. “I’m starving.”

I do and we begin to open and sample the varying things we bought. We know what some things are. Others not so much.

“Oh my God. Whatever that is, get it away from me,” I squeal and shove a plastic container his way as fast as I can when I see some kind of clear jelly mixed with things I don’t want to eat.

He takes the container and looks in it. “Jellied eels.” He shivers. “No. Thank. You.” And then he starts laughing. “My dad played a prank on my mum once with them. He put them under her pillow so when she slid her hands beneath it to sleep, she—”

“No. Stop.” I cover my ears and squeal. “Your poor mom.”

His smile is so damn bright and bittersweet. “I forgot about that memory. I thought it was so funny that I pointed them out to her in every store or restaurant we were in.”

“I’m sure she loved that.” I study his profile as he relives the memory in his mind. “Are you two close?”

He nods. “Very. She lives near Birmingham now, so I don’t see her as much as I used to with all the travel, but yes.”

“She hasn’t been to any races, has she?”

He twists his lips. “No. She doesn’t do well with them. Remember I said she has panic attacks?” I nod. “The track is the only place they happen.”

“That must be hard for you.”

I can’t imagine loving a sport that also took something so very vital and meaningful from you.

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal but then drops the bomb. “We were there that day. When he had the accident. It makes complete sense why for her.”

“There’s nothing I can say to even . . .”

“I know.” He reaches out and links his fingers with mine. “I know.”

We sit in silence for a few moments. There’s a siren in the distance. A loud wash of music from a car going by somewhere close by.

All I can think about is watching the one you love die in a fiery crash and feeling absolutely helpless to do anything about it.

And then the irony hits me. How different but how very similar our stories are. I’m doing the same with my dad. A helpless bystander, standing and supporting him, but unable to do anything to prevent the inevitable.

The unexpected realization hits me like a battering ram.