Chapter 15 #4
We’re walking to our apartment building from the parking lot across the street where Cameron keeps his motorcycle. Georgios and Pat live in the same building too, but they all came in one car with Chloe and Savannah, so they’re dropping the girls off first.
“I did. Thanks for… everything.” I sneak a glance from the corner of my eye. “I really enjoyed dinner.”
He turns as red as the light we’re jaywalking through. “About that. D’you think… would you mind…”
I mime zipping my mouth shut. “How come you haven’t told any of the guys about your background? Sasha’s a jerk, so I get it, but Pat’s so down-to-earth.” Well. As down-to-earth as a guy whose eighteenth birthday party was held on a three-hundred-foot-long super yacht can be.
“I don’t want to play up my differences, I s’pose. They must have a hint of it, though. Pat used to invite me on holidays when we were younger, but I’d always have a summer job I had to work.”
“What was your favorite job?”
“I spent a couple of months being a full-time dog walker one year. Much better than the summer I spent shucking oysters.”
“You’re a dog person! What’s your favorite breed?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” He laughs. “Golden retriever, I guess.”
“We had a goldie growing up! Her name was Rosie.” The best part of coming home from race weekends was letting her jump all over me and sniff the new trophy.
I take out my phone and tap into my favorites folder, pulling up an old picture of Rosie.
She’s been gone years now, but her happy face never fails to make me smile.
“That is so adorable. Do you have more pics?”
The next photo is one of me and Rosie together. She’s older, the fur on her nose graying. I’m in full junior high mode, complete with forehead pimples and braces. I remember feeling so proud of the pink-and-red color scheme I’d asked the orthodontist to do.
“That was my awkward era,” I say, swiping past quickly.
“I knew you’d have one—all the pretty girls do.”
He says it casually, nonchalantly. Like he’s talking about the weather and not saying words that send my heart beating a million trillion times a second.
I change the topic quickly, before I can explode from nerves. “You know, I bet if you told your story more broadly, you’d get more media attention. And sponsors.”
Good lord, I sound like Mom.
“You’re probably right, but…” Cameron scrunches up his nose. “There’s just something that feels off about using personal stories for attention. I don’t want to relive how my family nearly lost the house because they mortgaged it three times to fund my karting, y’know?”
I bite my lip. My family isn’t own-an-oilfield rich like Sasha’s, or even regular investment-banking rich like Grayson’s.
But even after Dad took off and Mom had to switch to a work-from-home job, the thought of losing our house never crossed my mind.
All I had to focus on was winning races on the weekend and getting good grades during weekdays.
“Am I grateful they sacrificed everything? Yes. And am I buying them a new house the moment I sign my first F1 contract? Also yes. But that doesn’t mean I want it all over media clips.
I want to race and be good. Not be known as some soppy Oliver Twist inspirational phoenix-rising-above-the-ashes story. ”
I tell myself not to soften. Try to remind myself that him getting the Orbital F2 seat means that I won’t, but I can’t help wishing there was more than one open seat up for grabs.
Because as badly as I want to prove myself, and as badly as I want my dreams to come true, I know it means just as much for him.
“I know,” I say. “It’s kind of how I feel about being a female racer.”
“Kind of?”
“I dunno… Maybe just ‘owning it’ won’t be that bad.” Chloe’s little sister treasuring Orbital energy bars just because my face is on them makes me feel like maybe I should put myself out there more, even if it makes me stick out. “It’s not like I can hide I’m a girl.”
We slow to a stop, dawdling in front of the entrance to our building. The soft yellow lighting from the lobby throws Cameron’s expression into shadows.
“It’s never occurred to me that at least I can hide the ways I’m different.”
He takes a step closer, and it’s as if someone has pushed the mute button on the world. The faint lobby music emanating from the entrance doors, the rumbling of passing traffic, all fade into the background. The night is ours alone.
There are just inches between us. His dark eyes skim up and down my face. Inadvertently, my gaze drifts to his lips and I wonder, in spite of my best attempt to pump the brakes on my own brain, what it would feel like to kiss him. My heart thuds so loudly I’m shocked he can’t hear it.
He leans in close, closer.
My attempts to keep from softening are mushing up faster than my insides. It takes every ounce of willpower I have—and a mental image of Frank huffing about unprofessionalism—to take a step back.
Confusion, so quick I don’t know if it’s a figment of my wishful imagination, flashes across Cameron’s face. Then Mom’s voice cuts through like the world’s loudest record scratch.
“Gougou!”