Page 59 of Off the Grid

“The sim? Why have you spent so much time on the Suzuka course in there?” he asks, referencing the Japanese track.

I struggle with what will appease him.

The truth will scare the shit out of him. Because it’s the track on which my dad died. Because if I can master the one place that terrifies me more than any other, then I know I’m ready.

Because being there, as morbid as it sounds, allows me to feel a small piece of him with me.

I didn’t realize anyone was watching what I was racing when I stayed here late and worked on my own.

“It’s my benchmark course. One of the more technical tracks,” I say. “If I can do well there, then I can adjust and adapt and do well anywhere.”

He nods but his eyes meet mine and say he knows I’m partially full of shit. “Every driver has their course they have to master. That must be yours.”

“It is.”

He lets the topic go and moves toward the door. “Dinner’s ready for you in the cafeteria.”

“Thanks.”

“And don’t stay too late. We leave for Barcelona in the morning.”

“I won’t.”

I stand and stare at the door he just went through, his question front and center in my mind.

No one at Moretti has come out asked about my dad or talked about his legacy that floats over my head like a lead balloon. Close enough it’s noticeable but far enough away I sometimes don’t see it because it’s trailing behind me.

Even Camilla hasn’t. Not even after our hash-it-out session in the conference room.

But I know everyone knows. I’m pretty sure there have probably been some side discussions about it. I know everyone wonders how I’m going to handle Suzuka if I’m contracted with the team when we get to that part of the circuit.

And yet no one flat out addresses it.

Was it something Carlo mandated? Or do the people here have enough decorum to let me prove the person I am rather than attach labels made for another man?

It’s food for thought as I head upstairs, eat a quick meal before jumping back in the sim.

But there’s one more thing I have to do before my night is complete and I’m ready to head out.

Something that’s going to be harder than hell to do, but that I need as a reminder to ground myself in reality.

To pay my respects for this opportunity.

“Riggs?” Dee picks up on the first ring, her voice more than surprised.

“Hi. How are you?” I ask out of courtesy when I already know the truth. She’s exhausted. Frazzled. Owned by worry and fear and everything in between.

“You know,” she murmurs.

“I can’t imagine.” The lump in my throat grows to epic proportions. “Any change?”

“His hands are . . . They’re hoping that the skin will heal and eventually allow him the same mobility so he can flex his hands and . . . you know.” Hold a steering wheel.

I can’t imagine loving a man who willingly puts himself in danger. And letting him race again, letting him do what he loves, despite already dancing way too close with death.

Isn’t that what Mum did with Dad?

Isn’t that what she does for me?