Chapter 15
“Not bad.” Cameron sits back, resting on his palms. “She’s not as ugly as she looks in old photos.”
“Shush, don’t be rude.” I plop down on the cracked asphalt next to him, making sure I sit far enough away we don’t run the risk of accidentally touching. “Maybe Frank will put her in the Orbital: A History display.”
He snorts. “A car that never won a race? More likely he’ll disassemble it and shove it back in the shed. Then he’ll make the next drivers who don’t get along do the same thing.”
“Maybe we should take some photos so we can help out the next feuding pair.” I snap a few pictures of our handiwork.
“Let’s get one of us, too. We can send it to Frank.”
He scoots closer and our thighs touch, lining up against each other. My pulse accelerates despite myself.
“Say ‘cheese.’ ” He extends out his long arm, capturing the two of us with the FC-80 behind. I’m relieved my smile looks seminormal and not like my heart is going a thousand beats per minute.
I shift away as soon as the photo’s done. Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel Cameron looking at me, studying me.
“Hey,” he finally says, “you fancy grabbing dinner?”
“With you?” My throat goes dry. We’ve never done anything together without being contractually forced to.
Cameron’s phone buzzes. “Sorry, one sec.” He pushes himself up off the ground. “Hi, Mum… Does it have to be tonight? Fine, I’ll get it. Bye, love you too.”
“Sorry about that.” He looks at me. “So, what do you say? I know it’s on the late side, so totally cool if you don’t want to,” he adds quickly, extending a hand.
I’m supposed to be getting my beauty sleep ahead of the gala tomorrow night, but Mom went down to London to speak at some momager convention (panel: Managing Your Successful Athletic Child), so there’s no one to stop me from going out tonight if I want to.
“Okay.” I place my hand in his and ignore the thrilling zing that zaps every nerve in my body.
He pulls me up easily. “Come on, we can take my bike.”
“This is your bike?”
I gawk at the gleaming 1975 Kawasaki in front of me. I know it instantly. I drool every time I walk past it in the OTC parking lot. I always thought it belonged to Otto Warner, whose love for iconic vehicles is as famous as he is.
“Got it off a bloke I used to work for.” Cameron beams, stroking the polished, showroom-ready handlebars. “My granddad and I restored it ourselves.”
I try not to let my jaw drop too much. I knew he was handy, but I didn’t know he was restore-a-vintage-motorbike-until-it-shines-level handy. Even Roz would have trouble taking this on.
“Shall we?” He hands me a helmet from the topbox, then loops a long leg over the seat and boots up the kickstand in one fluid motion. I climb on behind him, hoping the butterflies crashing in my stomach aren’t noticeable from the outside.
Cameron drives his motorcycle like he drives his car: fast and with zero chill.
We gun through Milton Keynes, the roar of the engine bouncing along the grid roads.
On the M1, he weaves in and out of traffic, zooming up the narrow gap between lanes when the speed of travel slows down.
If I stuck my feet out, I’d be touching cars on either side.
I grip the back of the seat, doing my best to keep from bodily flying off.
“You can hold on to me if it’s easier,” he calls back.
“Thank you!” I shout, the wind whipping strands of hair in my face.
I circle my arms around his waist. He’s obviously in shape because we all hit the gym six days a week, but still, I’m totally unprepared for how nice his abs feel.
All too soon, we’re pulling off the highway.
We ride through a town center lined by stately-looking Georgian buildings and cottage shops, a much closer approximation to the quaint British countryside I envisioned myself living in when I first found out I was moving to England.
But then Cameron makes a couple more turns and we’re no longer in the cute, pretty part of town.
The houses turn blander, the storefronts shabbier.
He slows the motorcycle and we stop in front of a row of attached houses. There’s a small patch of lawn in front of each, most overgrown with weeds and uneven clumps of shin-high grass. The fading brick looks like it hasn’t been power washed in years.
“Sorry,” he says, taking off his helmet. “I just have to run in and pick up something for my mum. Give me one sec.”
Before I can wonder what Cameron’s mother could possibly need from here, a woman with salt-and-pepper hair waves at us through one of the open windows. “Yoo-hoo!”
“Nan?” The shock in his voice is comical. “Mum said you left this morning.”
“We got as far as Liverpool when your granddad realized he forgot his medicine.” The woman lowers her head and squints at us. “Who’ve you got there? Is that a girl? Don’t just stand there; invite her in before she freezes!”
“It’s nineteen degrees. No one is freezing,” Cameron protests, but she’s already disappeared from the window.
He groans, running his hand over his face.
“Are we… at your grandparents’ house?” I ask tentatively. It’s so far from the stately country house with a garage of Aston Martins I imagined that I wonder if there’s something I’m misunderstanding.
He stiffens beneath my arms, still wrapped around his waist. Then he draws in a deep breath. “I grew up here, actually. It’s my childhood home. Me, my parents, my grandparents.”
I’m glad he’s facing forward on the bike so he can’t see how startled I am.
I always assumed Cameron was, if not a bajillionaire’s son, at minimum from a well-to-do family. He looks so at home hanging out with Pat and Georgios, I never thought for a second he didn’t grow up in their world.
But.
I think of all the tedious trainings Orbital puts us through.
How Cameron pays full attention and takes scrupulous notes while everyone else dozes off.
How he’s studying for A-levels. How he shared a bathroom with his sister growing up.
How he winces at overpriced bar drinks when most of the guys don’t even look at the check.
Somehow, I’ve missed that he, in his own way, is as much of an outsider as I am.
“I never knew” is all I can think of to say.
Before I joined Orbital, I researched (stalked) every single driver on the F3 grid.
I must have read hundreds of articles featuring Cameron, down to a ten-year-old Northampton Chronicle piece about his local karting feats.
Not a single one mentioned his humble beginnings.
He turns and looks at me over his shoulder. “Why would you? It’s not like I make a point of talking about it.”
“But you’re always dressed so…” I motion at the designer calfskin band around his smartwatch.
“Brands send me free stuff. I haven’t got a thousand quid to burn on something like this.
” His laugh is humorless, tinged with longing.
“What you said the other day, about feeling like you don’t belong, that’s how I used to feel when I was starting out and meeting Pat and Grayson with their yachts and holiday homes. ”
He’s still looking at me. A lock of hair falls over his eyes.
I have to work very, very hard to keep from reaching out and brushing it back. “Thank you for telling me.”
Before I can say more—that I get it, that I misjudged him—the front door bangs open. Nana Evans strides briskly toward us. “Absolutely horrific manners!”
I don’t know if she’s shouting at me or Cameron, so I quickly drop my hands from his waist and scoot backward.
She comes to a stop on the sidewalk next to us, hands on her hips. “You must be Justine!” She glances at Cameron. “This is your female teammate, innit?”
“The one and only,” he says.
“Have you lot had dinner yet?” she asks.
I shake my head at the same time Cameron nods.
She tuts and swats him on the arm with her spatula. “Where are your manners?” Then she waves at me. “Come on, love, let’s get you inside. I’m so keen to hear more about you.”
“Nan,” he groans, but he’s glowing in a way that can’t hide how much he loves her.
I hop off the motorcycle. With some pointed grumping, Cameron gets off after me. Nana Evans ushers us into the house, chattering the entire way. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve been hearing so much about you from Ron-Ron!”
My lips twitch. Cameron’s ears have gone scarlet.
“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he mutters. “I’m sure you’d rather eat at a proper restaurant.”
“I’d like to eat here, actually, if you don’t mind.” I want to see where he grew up. I want to see his awkward prepubescent photos and Star Wars sheets. Now that the entire mental picture I have of him has been tossed out the window, I want to see the real him.
I know I made the right call as soon as I step inside.
The Evanses’ house is cozy, the air rich with the smell of butter and freshly baked bread.
There’s hardly space for all three of us in the kitchen, but I manage to help myself to a generous scoop of shepherd’s pie and two dinner rolls without knocking anything over.
Cameron glops his own plate full, then leads me through a worn doorframe that opens into a small living room.
An old man—Cameron’s grandfather, if his distinguished features are anything to go by—is dozing off on the couch, sitting upright with his head lolling back.
Cameron gently removes the half-eaten plate from his hands and places it on the faded wooden coffee table. The TV is still on, playing BBC Four.
Cameron squeezes in next to his snoozing grandfather. I sit in the empty floral-patterned armchair, taking a bite off my plate.
“How is it?” He’s watching me nervously, like I’m going to spit it out and demand he take me to a fancy restaurant where they serve foam that tastes like lobster.