27 North Carolina

27

NORTH CAROLINA

MID-NOVEMBER

PHAEDRA

Interlagos, the track for the Brazilian Grand Prix, is tricky for multiple reasons. It’s bumpy as hell, full of hilly bits that follow the natural terrain rather than having been built flat. The circuit runs counterclockwise—one of only a handful that do—so it’s especially physically demanding because the strain on the driver’s body is ass-backward. And finally, the damned rain .

I’m watching the race from the Holden Beach house, where I’m staying alone. It might make me a bad daughter that I was relieved when my mother declined to join me here. I did stay with her for a week before heading to the coast, so I’m not entirely garbage. But when I asked whether she’d like to come along, she said she wasn’t ready yet.

Frankly, I’m not ready yet. Dad’s ghost (speaking in a non-paranormal Cranky Science Nerd way) is everywhere. I see him gazing at the beach from the deck chairs, chuckling in the living room while eating ice cream in front of the TV, and I hear the comforting rumble of him talking with Mama down the hall as I fall asleep.

I’m not imagining I can smell him—Mo wore Brut by Fabergé my entire life, and it’s permeated the fabric of his recliner, where I now sit. It’s noon here when the race begins, and I wait until 12:01 before pouring a glass of scotch to make it acceptable because, y’know, it’s the afternoon now.

The start is delayed because the track is so wet. Commentators are killing time, trying to find human interest shit to blab about, broadcasting footage from the garages, nattering about driver strengths and weaknesses, and so on.

I cheer and raise a toast when Natalia shows up on the screen. Unfortunately for her, she’s standing next to that prick reporter Alexander Laskaris—the one she went on the failed date with. The guy’s a dipshit who happens to have great bone structure and journalism-royalty parents rather than talent, but he draws a lot of water at the magazine.

I can’t help my smirk when a commentator mentions that the weather conditions should be no problem for Cosmin because “Ardelean is fantastic in the rain.” The memory comes back to me with a surge of heat, being in the back seat of that Lincoln while rain hammered the roof and Cosmin hammered me.

Fantastic indeed.

It may seem callous that I blocked his number before I even left the hotel in Austin to head for the airport. But I know my limits. I once again proved I have no self-control where he’s concerned.

I haven’t determined yet whether I’m enough of an undisciplined garbage-monster that I’ll have to spend next season in the United States, or if I can set aside my unquenchable thirst for the infuriating asshole I’m in love with. Realistically, it’ll probably require that one or both of us gets into a new relationship—a prospect that sounds about as appealing as sucking on cardboard.

Cos had a tragically poor showing in the US Grand Prix a few days after I left. He qualified sixth, made two stupid mistakes, and bitched over the radio about tyre strategy, which meant he not only looked like a passive-aggressive team-undermining dick but a whiner for implying it was a strategic issue when anyone with eyes could see he was driving like crap.

I get that his lack of focus may be my fault.

Our fault.

They just flashed a view of Cosmin in the car, waiting, and my God . Those intense, black-flecked blue eyes staring out from his helmet make me unconsciously stop breathing while he’s on-screen, as if the flutter of my breath might cause the camera to pan away.

The scene changes to a pair of dazzling-without-makeup female eyes—Sage Sikora in the white-and-sky-blue Harrier HR77. That freaky witch has doubled Team Harrier’s points in six races.

I’d be actively hoping for Jo?o Valle to be abducted by aliens and disappear from the sport to bequest Sage his seat, if it weren’t for the shrewd part of my brain that wonders how much money we’ll have to throw at her to lure her to Emerald.

It’s my call now; that’s one good thing. My heart is broken, but I can insist we court the driver I want. Huzzah.

Jakob is a sweetheart, but his contract is up after next year, and Sage Sikora would be a feather in our cap. Mad talent plus the X factor of being a woman has the entire planet watching her. Can a biblical plague be a good thing? Because if so, there’s a biblical plague of sponsor dollars poised to deluge the lucky team that “puts a ring on it” with the F1 It Girl.

I get myself inappropriately day-drunk over the hour delay, watching track stewards use push brooms to clear water off the low spots, and metaphorically dumping sand over the coals in my aching heart every time I spot Cos.

I check the satellite weather for S?o Paulo again and it doesn’t look good. Once the cars get going, there’s a chance another wave of rain will hit before even a half-ass dry line forms on the track. Any further delays and the race will time out before the full seventy-one laps.

By the time it starts, I’m pickled. Enough so that I’m commenting out loud as if Mo were here watching with me.

“Olsson—track limits again! What the hell is this, amateur hour?”

“Two defensive moves! Penalty, you beaky fucker!”

“Unsafe release! Christ, can the race stewards wake up?”

Things look exciting for Emerald—Cosmin’s chasing Powell for second.

He changed from full-wet to intermediate tyres at his last pit stop, which was risky. When he insisted on it over the radio, I literally growled in frustration. It feels too soon. If I were his race engineer today, I’d have questioned it. But Lars rolled over, so inters it is.

There’s enough of a dry line forming that Powell’s full-wet tyres are degrading fast—they need the water to avoid overheating. He’s obviously gonna box soon. Which is why I cannot believe my eyes when it becomes clear that Cosmin is about to try overtaking.

I jump to my feet, arms flung out. “What the hell are you doing?” I rage.

Admittedly, the opening is tempting, but it’s such maverick bullshit that if I could get my hands on him, I’d strangle the guy. Leaving the racing line, inters are rubbish—they shift only about 35 percent of the water full-wet tyres do.

Is he blind? What’s telling him this move is smart?

I clench my hair as I watch the inevitable crash. The safety car comes out—Powell and everyone else must be throwing air-kisses at Cosmin for gifting them with basically a free pit stop.

Lovely. More points Drew Powell (who already has the driver’s championship locked down) and Allonby Racing don’t need, and which Emerald does .

Seeing Cosmin climb from the car causes one second of relief before I want to punch him in the back of the head for crashing out of a points-paying position that might’ve solidified us third place in the constructors’ championship.

World champion driver status is great for the cock of the walk who clinches it. It’s the public face of Formula 1, and what everyone thinks of when they hear “world championship.” Drivers are the glamour and sex appeal of the sport, with their swaggering egos, seductive accents, and thirst-trap workout videos splashed on social media.

But what a team wants most is to bag the constructors’ championship, because that’s what determines the bottom line—prize money—and money makes a team run. The points for the constructors’ championship are the same as those awarded to the drivers: dependent on where they finish during the race. But those points are combined, so if both drivers finish in the top ten, it can amount to a good haul for their team.

This is precisely why I’m throwing a drunk hissy fit in front of the TV, yelling at stupid Cosmin about how many millions of dollars he’s potentially cost us. As I pace in the living room, ranting a shrill inventory of his crimes, I notice tears are running down my cheeks, and the rant has gotten very personal.

Slapping my hands over my face, I stomp blindly toward the recliner. I step on the edge of a party-size bowl of cheesy poofs, and it flips up, slamming me on the shin hard enough that I rage-shriek and collapse in front of the chair.

I let myself cry for a while, and as I trail off into whining and sniffling, I realize I have my arms draped on the recliner as if my dad were in it and I’m still the little kid who would sit on the floor and lean against his knees while we watched TV.

I grope for the remote and turn the race off. Silence descends.

I haul myself up and put on a coat and the rain boots I’ve had since I was fourteen. Dad got them for me because they have cartoon birds on them and he always called me chickadee, and that’s what the birds sort of look like. The boots are too tight now, but I still love them.

I walk outside and down to the water’s edge to talk to Mo, like he told me to.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Mo,” I say. “Everything fucking sucks. You didn’t want me to be, but… I’m in love with Cosmin and I’m miserable without him.”

A wave races up and seethes around my boots, which sink into the sand an inch.

“If you were here,” I go on, “you could tell me what to do. That’s the one flaw in your ‘Come down to the ocean and talk to me’ suggestion—the conversation just goes one way, and I have to guess your replies.” A grim chuckle escapes me. “Fortunately I know you pretty well.”

I give a sheepish look at the waves.

“I’m the same with Cosmin. Even back when I couldn’t stand the guy, we were in each other’s heads from the first day. I never thought I could know a person who wasn’t you this well. Weird, huh? And depressing, since I one hundred percent can’t be with him.”

I shake my head, lips pressed in a determined line.

“But I’m not going to disappoint the team—you’ll see. I’ll make you proud.”

I stare at my boots, pulling them free of the sand.

“Dammit, Mo! I could use some advice. Maybe an email?” I joke.

I’m studying one of the cartoon birds when a crazy thought flashes through me with such a shock that I gasp.

Chickadee.

Email.

Fuck!

I pivot and sprint back to the house. I’m laughing like a maniac as I wrestle the boots off and drop them, then rush to my laptop.

Of course I don’t remember the password for [email protected], because I haven’t used it in like four years. I basically use only my work email, because who the hell emails for anything other than work?

My dad did.

And it might not have occurred to him that I don’t. If he had anything personal to say, he wouldn’t have sent it through Emerald’s server, because our IT has access to everything there.

I send a “reset password” to my work account, and my hands are shaking when I finally get it sorted out and log in. I scroll through nearly three months’ worth of spam, holding my breath as I make my way back to August’s emails.

edwardjmorgan

Hey there, chickadee

Aug 23

“Oh God!” I clamp a trembling hand over my mouth.

The last letter from my father, sent five days before he died.

I open the email.

Reckon I’m a coward for not talking this out in person, but you know I’m better with action than words. It’s part of why you and I are two peas in a pod. We’re both allergic to mushy talk and have always understood each other without jawing about it.

I’ve meant to tell you a dozen times since you got home about my feelings on you and Cosmin. But it seemed you’d quit him firm, so I didn’t want to reopen any wounds. Still I have to say my piece, in case you’re on the fence and hiding your feelings like you tend to do.

That nonfraternization rule may or may not exist for a solid reason—I feel I can’t rightly judge there. But I was disappointed in how Klausy and Reece butted into your business. Seemed to me you two kids were handling things fine and making good results on track. I told Klaus I wasn’t gonna put my oar in because if word got around about me dictating his handling of the matter, there’d be talk of favoritism, and I know how you feel about that.

You thought you were hiding your relationship from everyone, but I’ve actually known for months, ever since Kim in IT brought something to my attention: Cosmin’s been writing you love letters for ages on his Emerald email and saving them unsent in drafts. Kim was concerned and forwarded the first batch to me in late April.

Early on you said that boy was a damned arrogant fool, though a good driver. But I’ve always had a hunch he runs deeper, and I wasn’t wrong. Everything in those letters says he’s in love with you. He’s intelligent, observant, and has a generous heart.

Klaus may think you shouldn’t be tangled up with Cosmin because it’s bad for the team. But love makes people stronger, not weaker. It makes them fight harder for what they want. I’ve given this a hell of a lotta thought. If you have feelings for him, don’t give up. You have my blessing.

It’s been a real privilege being your daddy. I’m proud of you and I love you.

P.S. The next email is for Klausy, and I don’t want to send it through the Emerald server but don’t have any other address for him. Please print it out and give it to him on paper. (It’s fine by me if you read it.)

By the time I get to the end of the letter, my tears could rival the rain in S?o Paulo. I am a sobbing, snurfling, handful-of-napkins-wringing mess.

I back out of the email and click on the next one.

Hey there Klausy,

I’ve been ruminating on it, and I think you’re wrong about the risks in Phaedra and Cosmin being sweet on each other.

You know Phae is a damned fine race engineer—that girl is a wizard, and she takes her job serious. Her closeness with Ardelean is an asset, not a vulnerability. Hell, I about shit myself too when I saw that crash, so you all need to stop giving Phae grief over her reaction. Sure, the whole world poked fun at her for a few days. But you know what? They were focused on Emerald. Why? Because PEOPLE make a story interesting.

If the cars were twice as fast and the tracks twice as thrilling, but the race was driverless, would there still be seventy million people tuning in? You know the answer as well as I do.

The cars, the strategy, the tech… those are great. But fans love racing because of the human story: victory and defeat, heartbreak and heroism. Phae and Cos being in love makes Emerald’s story more exciting. It raises the stakes, and fans are more invested.

It’s also the decent thing to do, letting them be happy. I know how much you miss your Sofia—that was a hell of a love match. Let my girl have hers too.

And please take care of her for me. I trust you.

You’ve been a great friend, Klausy. I’ll see you when you cross the bar too someday.

The first thing I do is cry with my head in my arms on the kitchen counter for a good fifteen minutes, until I’m empty.

The second thing: I watch the end of the race.

Third, I book a plane ticket to Abu Dhabi for the last grand prix of the year.