“I only ever said I love you to my family and David.” Her tears keep falling onto my thumbs.
“You don’t need to say it now. I know.” I clench my jaw, keeping her face in my hands. “I know.”
She drops her face and starts to gather the trash. “Take me back to the hotel.”
I stop her. “I won’t hurt you.”
She raises her head. “Can you honestly promise me that?”
I look down at her, something in my chest on unsteady ground. My voice roughens defensively. “Are you afraid that I’d hurt you or that you’d get hurt because I’m bipolar? Lana.”
She ignores my question and gets into the car.
“Take me to my room please.”
I slam her car door shut, furious.
I climb into the driver’s side, and Lana stares out the window on the drive back to the hotel, keeping those eyes from me.
After walking her to her room, I’m back in mine, a black spiral looming over me as I fight not to get sucked in.
I scrape my hand over my face, staring out the window, sleepless, my fucking heart down the hall and a few doors away, crying and in pain because she loves me.
Lana
I toss and turn all night.
I hate him.
I love him.
He’s taken all my memories of David and replaced them with him. All my love and put his face on it, his stamp on it, now when I think of David … a dimple appears on his cheeks, his soft brown eyes turn bright blue and vivid, and his light brown hair becomes wild and spiky and black.
I sent him a text in the middle of the night—
I’m sorry I just need some space to think. Lana
And it hurt that he answered immediately with a curt OK, because it only confirmed the fact that he wasn’t sleeping either.
I’m in a bit of a tired and highly wired state the next morning when I spot him at our tent at the side of the track, looking sharp as ever in his black racing suit, with the U.S. flag stitched at his belt, and his new sponsor logos plastered all across his muscular arms and chest—and he looks like everything I will ever possibly want, and like nothing I could have ever imagined myself having, and I don’t know whether I want to pull him to the motorhome to tell him that he’s right, that he’s right and I’m a big ol’ coward, or I don’t know if I want to run away.
I don’t run away though.
I sort of drink him in as he sits at a table with the mechanics and laughs at something Adrian says, and then I see him turn his head to spot me, fold his legs as he pulls them off the table, and come to his feet as he snatches up two coffees from nearby and brings them over.
My heart thuds a thousand and one times. “Good morning.” His voice is husky.
“Good morning.”
He hands me a cup of coffee, and I laugh and extend his too. “I brought you one too.”
“We’ll just keep bringing each other coffee until one of us gets it.”
“You get it first.”
“No. You do.” He tweaks my nose and winks. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” I say, breathless.
“I’ve been racing for quite a few Grand Prix, and I still haven’t gotten you to admit I’m the best driver in the world. It won’t do.” He shakes his head. “My mustang is back in St. Pete, waiting to get fixed.”
“You banged it up and I’m sure it’s fixed already.”
“We had a deal,” he says. “Are you backing out on me?”
“No. Are you?”
“I never back out on anything,” he says, giving me a look that says I’m his, that he’ll be patient, that he’ll wait.
I want to talk to him, but we’re placing amazing in the championship points, fighting for second place with the Clark’s second driver, and it’s already going beyond my and my family’s wildest dreams.
I don’t want to bring my personal things here and dump them all in the track, so I hold back and try my best to keep everyone comfortable—and the team performing at their best.
So I just clear my throat and say, “You have six interviews after quali.”
“I’m on it.”
He looks at me for a second, a look that’s secretive and frustrated and determined and melts my bones, and then I watch him with a pang of longing as he go gets ready to drive like the blue-eyed devil that he is.
He has a great qualifying session, coming in P3, so that’s where he’ll start the race.
I hurry to where he stands by the press, bringing his sponsors cap.
“You forgot this!” I say breathlessly as I reach out and put it on his head, and the cameras seem to love to notice the way he stared at me for an extra second.
“You and your team seem to get along pretty well, Racer, do you think that has anything to do with your marvelous performance so far this year?”
“Lana’s my lucky charm,” he says, and I’m turning the color of a chili pepper as I walk way, glancing back only to see him continue on with his next interviews—and that’s when I notice he’s tapping his fingers at his sides.
My stare lingers on those strong, long, restless fingers for a beat more before I chide myself for obsessing on him and everything about him and walk away.
Ever since Racer got P1 I’ve noticed all the other drivers (except Clark) are hounding him, asking him to hang out, to go out for drinks, etc. I swear it’s like everyone is seeing Racer as their own ticket to the podium. As if befriending him will somehow get some of his luck to rub off on them.
Racing is a superstitious sport. Pre-race rituals and lucky charms are a norm. Because everyone knows that to win, you not only need a good car and an insane amount of talent, you need the universe to smile upon you.