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When the surgeon’s office confirmed the timing for Dad’s knee replacement, I asked if I could take a semester off my college automotive engineering program to stay home and take care of him. The administrator at Ohio State told me they don’t do semesters off and couldn’t promise to hold a spot in my program. “You’re in automotive engineering. Why don’t you transfer to Ashford Academy, since you’re in the area?” she suggested.

I think she was joking, because it’s nearly impossible to get in. I applied anyway without telling a soul. When I got accepted, I read the email on my cracked phone screen in my bedroom, nerves and excitement colliding in my stomach.

There was only one downside, and he’s seated across from me.

“How well do you know the Ashfords?” I ask Dad now, pushing my eggs around my plate.

Dad bumps his drinking glass. “Enough to know they’re trouble.”

“They can’t be that bad. You’ve worked for them for two decades.”

“Just because I work for them doesn’t mean they’re good people. Least they haven’t stopped sending a paycheck while I’ve been off.

“Speaking of the garage,” he goes on, “I should call my supervisor to check in.”

“No!” I clear my throat, alarm rising up. “Keane knows you’re on the mend and when you’ll be back. He doesn’t need daily updates.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Dad winces, probably from a twinge in his knee, but relief sags through me.

It’s harder than I figured keeping two secrets from him.

“It’ll all be worth it when we can open our own garage,” I remind us both.

“Only once you finish college.”

I roll my eyes.

Since I was young, we watched racing together on TV, but he refused to let me into his work at ARI. He was every bit as resolute the handful of times I mentioned Ashford Academy.

I was allowed to love F1, to be a fan with him, to mess around with cars in our own garage once he realized he’d have to padlock the door to keep me out. But anything more serious was off-limits. When I joked in high school about going to the academy, his reaction took on a new edge.

“That world is not for you,” he said in a shaky voice I’d rarely heard him use. “Racing is dangerous. Full of greed and ego and…”

“Toxic masculinity? I can handle it.”

He thinks I picked up a few day shifts at the diner. He’d never approve if he knew the truth.

Now I finish my toast and cut a look at the clock. “Okay, now I really have to run.” Our stomachs full, I grab both our plates and drop them in the dishwasher.

I collect my bag, but before I can head for the door, Dad’s out of his seat and waving me in for a hug.

“They would be proud of who you’ve become,” he murmurs, the strength of his arms making up for the shakiness of his legs.

He’s been weirdly sentimental lately, but I hug him back, my left elbow stiff. It’s so subtle I barely notice it anymore, but on a cold day, or when I’ve been working a lot, the ache is still there.

I jump in the Mustang and head into town, making a stop on the way.

The Junction is a local institution, a diner dating back to when kids drag-raced Chevys on the main street. They’ve kept the uniforms and the jukebox, because there’s no point messing with perfection.

“There she is! I was starting to think you were dead.” Bree’s expression brightens as I swing in the door.

As familiar as The Junction is to locals, that’s how Bree feels to me. When I started first grade, I struggled to fit in. When one of the boys broke a strap on Bree’s backpack, I helped her fix it. She told me I would be her friend and that we’d make our own games from then on out.

“I miss your face. I should see it more since I’m supposed to be covering for you.” Bree moves seamlessly between the kitchen fridge and the pass-through, tattoos peeking out from under her short sleeves.

“You will. Once I get caught up with school.” I duck behind the pass to pour two coffees.

At Ohio State, I’d never felt behind, even as a freshman last year. After just one week, it’s like I’m running just to keep up.