Chapter 28
JACK
The Ferrari garage in Las Vegas hums with pre-race energy in the late afternoon.
Through the open garage door, the sun has just begun sinking toward the horizon and the Strip is coming alive, neon signs flickering on as the sky fades from blue to orange.
Every casino is lighting up and the buzz of the crowd is building, music and announcements echoing across the circuit.
Hours before the race and Vegas is already electric.
This is it. This is what I’ve been training for, waiting for, fighting to get back to for eighteen months. My shot at getting my full-time seat back.
My phone buzzes in my pocket for the third time in ten minutes. My brothers, mostly. They’ve been texting on and off for the last two weeks, ever since I left Dark River without saying goodbye.
Not the first time I’ve pulled a vanishing act when things got complicated, but apparently they’re not letting it slide this time.
Calvin and Theo both figured out something was wrong with Lark.
They’d sent careful check-in texts, the kind of concerned older brother messages that made me feel like shit.
All of them had given me endless shit once I’d finally admitted the truth, that Lark and I started as fake dating, then it became real, then I fucked it up spectacularly by walking out on her.
I ignore the buzzing and try to focus on the engineering briefing happening in front of me. Marco, the lead race engineer, is going over telemetry data from yesterday’s qualifying session.
“The brake system was giving Davis trouble in the corners, but it should be good now,” Marco says, pointing to data on his tablet. “We’ve adjusted some calibrations for your driving style. Should feel more responsive.”
I nod, absorbing information. This is what I need to focus on. Not Lark. Not the fact that I haven’t heard from her in two weeks. Not the hollow feeling in my chest that’s been there since I walked out of her apartment.
My phone buzzes again. I pull it out, half hoping it’s Lark even though I know it won’t be.
Thomas. Of course.
Thomas: Where are you? Need to talk about tonight. Media briefing in 30 minutes.
I text back quickly.
Me: Garage. Engineering briefing.
Thomas: Good. Find me after. This is happening, Jack. Don’t fuck it up.
No pressure or anything.
Marco continues the briefing. The track is unforgiving. Narrow and high-speed with concrete barriers that don’t give you any margin for error. One mistake and you’re out.
“P18 is not ideal,” Marco says to me, which might be the understatement of the century. “But the car is fast. Luca’s been P3 and P4 in recent races with this package. You can move forward. It’s just going to require patience and picking the right moments.”
What he’s not saying, what everyone in the paddock is thinking, is that getting into the points from P18 would be a minor miracle.
Top ten means passing at least seven cars on a circuit with limited overtaking opportunities.
The online betting odds I saw this morning had me finishing P14 at best. Even the most optimistic racing journalists are predicting P12 or P13.
A points finish? P10 or better? That’s wishful thinking.
Thomas had been blunt about it during our call this morning. “Look, no one expects you to win from P18. Hell, most people would be shocked if you crack the top ten. Just drive clean, show them you can race smart, don’t bin it into the barriers. That’s all Ferrari needs to see.”
But that’s the thing. I don’t want to just drive clean and finish P12. I want to prove I’m better than that. That eighteen months on the sidelines didn’t dull my edge. That I can still do things other drivers can’t.
I nod at Marco, my mind already running through the race, calculating possibilities. It’s going to take perfect execution and a bit of luck. But I’ve made impossible overtakes before.
LARK
The green room backstage at the Las Vegas Strip Circuit is smaller than I expected, which is saying something because my expectations were already pretty modest. It’s really more of a glorified closet with a mirror, a chair, and a folding table.
The race doesn’t start until later this evening, but the pre-race entertainment is already in full swing. I’m part of the “emerging talent showcase” on a smaller side stage, which is basically the opening act before the opening act. The thing people mostly ignore while getting settled.
But if Maya is right, the footage will be everywhere.
Through the thin walls I can hear the bass from the main stage, and my stomach does that familiar clench. Stage fright has been my constant companion for years now, and tonight it’s brought all its friends.
My phone buzzes on the table and I grab it, desperate for distraction.
Maren: YOU’RE GOING TO BE AMAZING. I’m manifesting success for you right now. Calvin says to tell you to break a leg!
Maren: YOU’VE GOT THIS. Can’t wait to hear all about it!!!
I smile despite the nerves churning in my stomach. Maren and I FaceTimed an hour ago, and before that I’d called my parents, who were so proud they both got teary, which made me teary. Thank goodness I chose to wear waterproof mascara tonight.
I’m wearing the dress Maren and I picked out weeks ago. Deep blue with silver stars beaded all over it. My hair falls in soft waves, my makeup looks good, and I feel confident about how I look. Now if only I felt half as confident about getting through three songs.
The door opens and Maya walks in, phone pressed to her ear.
“Mm-hmm, yes, I understand, but we need the sound levels adjusted before the next performer or—” She spots me and holds up one finger in the universal give-me-a-second gesture while finishing her call. “Right. Okay. Handle it. Thanks.”
She hangs up and immediately types something on her phone with her thumbs moving at lightning speed.
“Lark! Thirty minutes,” Maya says, still typing. Then she glances up and actually looks at me, and her expression does this thing where her professional smile falters for just a second. “Oh.”
My stomach drops. “What? Is something wrong?”
“That’s what you’re wearing.” It’s not quite a question.
“Yeah, I thought… you said something elegant and stage-appropriate?” I’m suddenly very aware of every bead on this dress.
Maya sighs. “I sent you a list last week. The stylist picked out options that fit the rebranding aesthetic. This is...” She gestures at me. “Very pretty. Just not quite what we discussed.”
“I didn’t get that email,” I lie, and I’m definitely going to hell for this because I absolutely got that email.
The problem was that all the outfits looked atrocious and like something I would never be caught dead wearing.
So I may have decided that email was more of a suggestion than a requirement.
Maya studies me for a moment like she’s calculating whether this battle is worth fighting, then shakes her head. “Well. It’s too late now anyway. You look great, honestly. Just not exactly the direction we discussed.”
“I’m so sorry.” I’ve worked in customer service long enough to make that sound genuine.
“It’s fine.” Maya picks up her phone again. “Okay, so you’re third in the lineup. You’ll do your three songs. I heard the sound check went well earlier, so I think you’re all set.”
She glances up from her phone, giving me her full attention. “The label executives are watching the livestream back in LA. This is your showcase, your chance to prove you can deliver this sound live and handle a real audience. You do well tonight and we move forward with an official contract.”
“Right. No pressure or anything.” I try to smile but it comes out more like a grimace.
“You’re going to be great!” She squeezes my shoulder briefly before her phone buzzes again. “We’re so excited about your potential. Just remember everything we talked about—big energy, connect with the crowd, really sell these songs.”
Her phone rings and she’s already answering it as she heads toward the door. “Yes, hi, I’m dealing with that right now—” The door closes behind her and she’s gone, swept back into whatever crisis is happening.
The room feels smaller without her chaos filling it, which is probably better for my nerves. Just me and the bass thumping through the walls from the main stage.
I walk over to the corner and open my guitar case, reaching inside the pocket for my phone charger. My hand closes on crumpled paper instead. Shit. I pull it out and smooth it flat, my throat tightening.
It’s the first draft of “Until You Say Stay.” I wrote it about Jack the day after our huge fight, and I’d completely forgotten I’d shoved this in here.
The finished version is better now, polished, refined.
I’ve played it dozens of times at home, even recorded it a few times without posting anything.
But seeing this handwritten first draft brings every second of that fight flooding back. The way he looked at me. The things we said. How much I miss him crashes over me like a wave I wasn’t prepared for. I trace my finger over the crossed-out lines and frantic rewrites.
Two in the morning, tears streaming down my face, but my fingers flying across the guitar strings like they knew exactly where to go. The words pouring out raw and honest and completely mine. That’s what my music is supposed to feel like.
Not the versions I’m about to play. The ones that have had every piece of me stripped away and replaced with something generic. Something safe. Something that isn’t even my style, that I don’t even like.
I shove the paper back into the pocket, but the feeling won’t go with it.
My hands are shaking.
I don’t know if I can do this. Walk out there and perform songs that aren’t mine, smile and sell something I don’t believe in, prove I’m willing to erase everything that matters to me.
A knock on the door. “Twenty minutes, Ms. Reyes.”