Chapter 35 #2
Sure enough, a Jumbotron catches us, and I sling my arm around Trin’s shoulders as a notice appears over the screen.
NASCAR welcomes DART RIVERS.
People near us turn and clap. Someone wants a selfie. Another wants an autograph.
I’m humbled that a guy from the middle of the pack, who won a few races, is recognizable in this crowd. I’m also honored.
And a little embarrassed. I glance at Trin again, but she smiles softly, pride in her eyes. Like she knows I worked hard. How much I wanted to be something. Be better for her.
When the people around us settle back into their seats, I reach for Trinity again and kiss her cheek.
She chuckles. “What was that for?”
“Just . . . thanks for being here with me.” For being here for me, because I still don’t know what Max wants, but those car keys in my pocket are digging into my thigh.
Trinity continues to watch me as I glance back at the track.
“You really love it here, don’t you?”
Being here isn’t just about a race. It’s atmosphere. Tradition. It’s the shared gasp when someone bumps the wall and the collective roar when your favorite driver takes the lead.
Strangers will high-five like lifelong friends.
Being here isn’t quiet, polite, or subtle.
It’s thunder, heat, horsepower—and the unmistakable thrill of speed.
I can feel it rattle in my bones.
I shrug. “I do,” I sigh. “I mean, I did.” Even standing here in all this bounding excitement, I know my race days are over. I can’t get in a car to drive at high speeds and risk something happening to me. Risk leaving Trinity and Mirabelle without me.
Or me losing them.
“You miss it,” she says, not really a question but an observation.
“Yeah,” I say, the sound more a sigh.
I glance toward the fence caging in the racers. The main event will start soon, although people are still moving along the barricade and up the stairs. The energy among the crowd is like a living, breathing thing. The movement is mesmerizing. The sensation intoxicating.
What’s not to love about this collective excitement?
But then again, I’ve taken so much pleasure in the quieter times spent with Trinity and Mirabelle these past months.
We’ve been enjoying the new deck. Trin comes to my games. We’ve gone dancing together, something we never did before.
I’m reminded of that giddy first date feeling from when we first took our seats. Trin and I are new again. We’re whole again.
Engines rev louder. The sound is almost deafening. The purr is like an aphrodisiac. The pull of wild beasts ready to be unleashed.
My heart rate accelerates, as if I’m a driver about to hit that dirt course.
“I never wanted you to feel like you were floating.”
With my arm around Trinity, I lean closer, trying to hear her better.
“I only want you to fly.”
My head turns in her direction, our faces close.
We recently watched F1, a fictional movie about a former NASCAR driver who moves to a new division of racing.
The main character describes getting in the zone while driving is like flying.
That moment of pure bliss. Adrenaline high. Heart full of awe.
“I’m not floating,” I argue. My purpose is clearer now. Perhaps clearer than it’s ever been.
Some of us don’t have definitive answers to what our calling is in this life.
We don’t have a constant high from doing what we love, where we love it.
We aren’t born with a gift or talent or have an experience that shapes our life, drives it in one direction, like Trin did.
Some of us fight and fumble and make big mistakes.
Some of us wait and wait and wait before we reach for the brass ring and take destiny into our own hands.
Some of us have multiple starts and stops and breakdowns before we hit the road again on a new path.
There isn’t any right or wrong course.
But I know I’m meant to be with Trin and Mirabelle. Wherever they are, I have purpose.
“We should all feel special about what we do,” she continues. “Who we are,” she shouts, her brows creasing, concern circling her eyes.
Racing made me feel special.
Sure, it was entertainment, but on a personal level, I had focus when I raced. I constantly pushed myself to do better, be better. An insistent push and pull between potential and success.
And I was successful in some ways.
But I feel more successful being with Trin. She makes me feel important. Her and Mirabelle. Maybe being a dad isn’t for every man, but it’s something I’ve wanted for a long time, and it was rewarding for me. Rewarding in ways that don’t lead to dollars, trophies, or accolades.
I’m looking forward to that day I might get a homemade bracelet and a handmade award.
World’s Best Dad.
I wish.
With my arm around Trin, I squeeze her against me. “I do feel special, baby.” I kiss her temple again. “Because you love me.”
She hasn’t said it. She doesn’t have to. I know she loves again. Or never stopped loving me, just as I never stopped loving her.
And that is more special than anything in this world.
“I do love you, Dart.”
Stunned by the admission, I pull back, staring at her face. “I love you, too, baby,” I say, caught up in the moment.
My girl. Our love. The race.
The green flag drops, and I tighten my hold on Trinity.
Go time.
“But sometimes love alone isn’t enough,” she says.
I turn toward her again, my heart sinking to my booted feet. “What?”
My brain pings from the excitement of the race, and the revelation of our feelings put into words, to sudden dread in my gut.
“What are you saying?” I yell back at her, knowing this isn’t the time or place to have a deep conversation. It’s suddenly too loud, too hard to think. I don’t know if the fog in my ears is the cars whizzing past us or the whooshing of my pulse.
Trinity cups my jaw and leans toward me, kissing the corner of my mouth.
“I’m gonna go home, but I want you to stay.”
I’m pinned in place, too stunned to move. Like watching a bad crash in slow motion and not knowing how to respond as an observer.
Or worse, being the driver. Knowing you need to get out of the flames, but you’re suddenly so cold inside, you don’t feel the heat. You’re stuck in this time warp of rippling speed flipping to lazy, curling rolls, like moving through mud.
Trinity slips past me before her words and actions register. She hastily weaves between latecomers who are clambering up to their seats, or stalled on the stairs, taking in the first minutes of the race.
Fuck. “Trin,” I holler as she bops through the mayhem.
I start after her, fruitlessly calling her name, knowing she can’t possibly hear me over the thunderous roar.
She gets farther and farther away from me, the crowd almost moving her forward while holding me back. Eventually, she reaches the tunnel entrance and disappears, like she’s been swallowed.
I continue rushing after her, apologizing as I press forward, pushing people aside, until I reach the tunnel as well.
I swear I’d recognize Trinity anywhere. Find her in a crowd of faceless people. Sense her in the myriad mayhem. But I can’t see around or over or through the jam of race fans in the concourse.
I’ve lost my wife.
And this time, I worry it’s forever.