23 Hungary

23

HUNGARY

EARLY AUGUST

COSMIN

The fact that I was outside the points at Hockenheim last week created tension. Not to disparage Lars, who is a good race engineer, but after working hard to cultivate an almost faultless rapport with Phaedra over the first ten GPs of the season, adjusting to Lars’s communication style is jarring. Add that to my emotional malaise, and it was a recipe for failure, resulting in my worst full-race finish for Emerald thus far.

Klaus came to my motorhome Sunday evening after the race in Germany.

“I have no patience with childlike sulking,” he said. “Mistakes happen, but yours today were so uncharacteristic and numerous, I must conclude you’re acting out.”

I lifted my hands. “Everyone has an off race.”

“No. Your petty temper hurt not just the few with whom you are angry; you let down a team of nearly a thousand people.” He pointed at me. “Don’t be shit.”

Apparently, despite nursing a sore heart and wounded pride, Don’t be shit was the kick in the arse I needed, because this week I gaze down from the podium in second place.

Klaus surely assumes I’ve taken to Lars as my race engineer, but unbeknownst to them both, Phaedra is still the secret to my success. Many times during the race today, the phantom of her words and the memory of her skill visited me, and I responded as if she were there.

It’s still true—perhaps now more than ever—what I said to her the week of Silverstone: You live in my head on track and in my heart everywhere.

I am unaccountably aware of my face when the national anthems are played during the trophy ceremony. Race winner Drew Powell fidgets with his hat as usual, raking his fingers through the regrettably thinning hair that matches his goatee. On the other side of Drew, Anders Olsson stands like a marble statue.

My gaze combs the crowd. Viorica is here somewhere—she told me there is a matter she wishes to discuss after the race.

The music over the loudspeaker dies off, and I’m relieved to throw myself into the distracting revelry of champagne spray. The person I want here more than anyone is five thousand miles away, and this long-anticipated moment feels anticlimactic.

The car is like an exoskeleton these days. It’s the only thing holding me together.

A dozen of the crew go out to celebrate at Szimpla Kert, one of Budapest’s iconic “ruin bars”—hip hangouts in dilapidated buildings. I texted Viorica an invitation to accompany us and have booked her a suite at the hotel where some Emerald teammates are staying, but she declined to leave her room.

Come see me when you return, even if it is late , she messaged before I left for the bar.

One hour and two cocktails later, I’m glad for an excuse to leave. I’ve glanced at my phone a hundred times, hoping for any message from Phaedra beyond her simple “Congratulations!” immediately after the race.

After telling Jakob and Inge that my sister isn’t feeling well, I message Viorica that I’m on my way, then climb into a Bolt taxi to go to the hotel.

When she opens the door to her suite, she’s still in her day clothes despite it being nearly midnight. Her only concession to the hour is a lack of shoes. Rica has always been a very controlled person, which is why it surprises me when I pass her in the doorway and smell liquor.

In the living room area, there’s a bottle of Tokaj gin one-third empty with a tumbler beside it. She pours another centimeter and lifts the glass in offering.

“Thank you, no. I had a few at the bar.” I nod at her slim black suit, joking, “Did you attend a funeral today?”

She shakes her head and drains the glass.

“What is troubling you, Rica?” I flick a hand toward the gin. “This is unlike you.”

She sets her tumbler on the coffee table with a hollow click. “Two weeks ago,” she begins, her voice tentative, “you asked how I feel about forgiving Grigore Lupu. I know what it took for you to ask me that without judgment or anger.”

“That is Phaedra’s doing.” I sit on the sofa, a small, intimate smile overtaking me. “I’ve grown so much under her influence—her advice has been invaluable.”

“Please thank her, in that case.” Viorica twists a diamond ring on the third finger of her right hand. “I brushed off your question when you asked. But circumstances have changed.” She sits near me, azure eyes serious. “It’s time I told you about my son, Iosif. My son… with Grigore.”

Bewilderment bursts in me like a rocket. My gaze jumps from the diamond ring to her belly—flat and seemingly unchanged.

“You’re pregnant? And this?” I gesture to where her fingers twist the glittering band. “Does it mean you—”

“Cosmin. No. I’m not pregnant.” She shifts closer on the sofa and takes my hand in both of hers. “It happened when I was seventeen.”

“W-where is the baby now?” I stammer. “No, not a baby. He’d be twenty.” I pull my hand from Viorica’s grasp and clasp it over my forehead as if trying to contain the chaos within. “You’re marrying Lupu—that devil?”

“Andrei Ardelean was the ‘devil.’ Grigore spared me, a lifetime ago, from what could have been much worse. Please let me explain.” She covers her face for a moment, sighing. “What do you remember of our childhood home near Lake Oa?a?”

I shake my head. “The house was blue, with berry bushes outside. There was an old-fashioned rain barrel I liked to dip my hands into. I wish I could recall more.”

“You were only four,” she says gently. “When our parents died and we went to live with this uncle we’d never met, his first words to me—a fourteen-year-old child—were, ‘You have eyes like frozen moonlight.’” She grimaces with disgust. “I thought it flattering. For a time.”

She twists the ring again as if it’s too tight.

“Your grief seemed bottomless, Cosminel. And Andrei had no patience with a little boy’s tears. He said you needed ‘toughening up.’ Knowing what that might mean, I convinced him to send you away to school in the fall.”

“That was your doing?”

“Yes. And please don’t think I intend to provoke guilt when I tell you it was not without cost.” Gravely she meets my eyes. “It was better that you were gone most of the time.”

I push to my feet and walk to the window, close enough to the glass that a halo of my hot breath blooms on its surface.

“I assume you’ve heard the rumors of… a purchase ,” she says. “The truth was, Andrei owed Grigore an enormous sum—a gambling debt. It would have ruined him and beggared us. No boarding school, no karting.”

I lean my forehead against the glass, a cold spot on which to focus. “ Rica, no ,” I whisper, shutting my eyes tight.

“Grigore knew how I suffered—it was an open secret. The debt was cleared upon condition that Grigore would take me in. But before you think him the hero of this tale, it’s best to be honest and admit his interest was not heroic. He lusted after a pretty sixteen-year-old.”

My stomach boils with anger, but I do my best to keep my face impassive as I return to the sofa. Viorica rises to get her phone from the bedside table. She swipes it open and shows me a picture of a snapshot on glossy paper with one creased edge: an infant with dark blond hair and a faint smile.

“Until a few months ago, I had never seen a photo of my son. And I never thought I could forgive Grigore for taking him from me. Iosif went to a good family in Bra?ov, but that was no comfort at the time.”

She settles beside me again.

“When I sought out Grigore in May, it was my intention to blackmail him into giving me money for Vlasia House. Instead, he wept and begged my forgiveness, took this photo from his wallet…” She fixes me with a level gaze. “Then asked me to marry him.”

We stare at each other for a breath, two, three.

“Rica. A sentimental photograph does not negate what he did to you.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t make him a decent man.”

“He’s not. But his money will be mine one day—it’s a condition of my accepting his proposal. I’m owed. And Cosmin, it’s not your place to judge my choice . There will be no discussion. This is final.”

As I turn to focus on the city lights below the window, jaw tense and my chest aching, I imagine Phaedra is with me. I can almost hear her saying, This isn’t your fight, Legs. Shut the fuck up and listen. Do better.

My God, I don’t want to say it, but I must.

“I trust you. I won’t try to stand in your way. But can you love Grigore Lupu, Rica? A man such as that?”

She darkens her phone screen. “I may never love him, but I do love the memory of Iosif. It’s enough.”