Chapter 3 Portland, Oregon
PORTLAND, OREGON
SAGE
I know it pains my mom that Julian and I don’t get along.
We’re only thirteen months apart; my mom had us practically back-to-back just before turning forty.
Maybe it’s us being so close in age, but Jules was my first and fiercest competitor, and that’s made me who I am.
My aggressive hates-to-lose personality is probably due to this lifelong dynamic.
It’s worked great for racing, so I wouldn’t change it if I could.
Jules is way mellower than I am. And things didn’t sour between us until eleven years ago.
But I can’t tell my parents why. I haven’t told anyone, including Priya.
She’s been my best friend since we were toddlers and is the daughter of my dad’s business partner.
We grew up together. She’s carried a torch for Julian since puberty, and I won’t hurt her by telling her that Julian once let me almost die.
When I was fifteen, the two of us went hiking one day while our family was visiting Thailand.
Jules was annoyed, because he’d wanted to go climbing instead.
But because I was feeling under the weather, I insisted on hiking.
So, we’d already started out the day grouchy, flipping each other a lot of shit.
My parents stayed at our rented bungalow in Tonsai Beach with friends. I had pain in my side that I figured was premenstrual twingy cramps or something, and it got worse during the hike. On our way back, it was so bad that I mentioned it to Jules, who was complaining about me slowing him down.
He gave me a ton of shit, saying it was just a stitch in my side and I needed to stretch and drink water and “stop whining.” When I sat down to rest for a few minutes, he left me behind in disgust. My appendix ruptured, and I don’t remember what happened before the hospital, but apparently I was lying unconscious just off the trail for hours, basically dying.
My dad and brother came back to look for me when it was getting dark and I still hadn’t returned.
I was taken by helicopter to a hospital and came close to not making it through the ordeal. The incision scar is pretty huge, bigger than what’s typical. It was nearly five months before I could go back to karting.
Julian has never apologized.
I have no idea why I didn’t rat him out for abandoning me.
My parents were already so upset that I guess it seemed wrong to compound things by pointing fingers.
Since they found me off the trail, Julian’s story was that he did look for me right away but couldn’t find me and figured I’d taken another route.
It’s obviously bullshit, but I’ve let him get away with it for our parents’ sake.
Their marriage has always been rocky, so I try not to make the family even less stable.
It’s easier to keep my feelings to myself—something I’m already practiced at.
Another by-product of growing up in a competitive sport.
You can’t let people in, because anyone could use your vulnerabilities to their advantage.
Your image is your identity, as far as everyone is concerned, and… yeah, it makes you guarded.
It’s been a great visit home because Julian isn’t here.
I can relax and have my mom all to myself.
My “trustafarian” jerk of a brother is off climbing in Puerto Rico.
Tomorrow, Priya and I are flying out to rejoin Emerald, so Mom’s been in the kitchen all day, whipping up the family favorites.
Priya and I are hanging out with her, sneaking bites of things and getting tipsy off White Russians while quoting The Big Lebowski.
When my mom cuts into an eggplant, I remind her that it’s Julian who likes it, not me.
“Julian is going to be here in ten minutes or so,” Mom says, focused on her knife flying across the cutting board.
My gut tenses. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Priya sets her cocktail down and touches her hair as if trying to remember how it looks. It’s in two messy braids, and she’s wearing cutoff sweats and a faded T-shirt. “Oh my God,” she mutters. “Um… I need to… uh… I’ll be back.”
She dashes from the room—presumably to put on makeup, fix her hair, and change into something adorable-yet-effortless-looking. My mother and I exchange a knowing smirk.
Mom slices the eggplant with precision. “Those two,” she says with an indulgent chuckle. “I wonder if they’ll ever give it a shot? She’s so sweet on him, and Julian couldn’t hope for a more lovely girl.”
“Why would you inflict that on Pri? I thought you liked her.”
“Be nice.”
“But I’m not ‘nice.’” I reach for Priya’s abandoned drink and pour it into my own before taking a gulp.
“Pri’s too stable for Jules—he always goes for the squirrely ones.
Remember the fire dancer who put a snake in his bed when she thought he was cheating?
Or that artist he brought to your anniversary party, who wore the bustier made of condom wrappers and lectured everyone on Marxism? ”
Mom winces, then dumps the eggplant into a bowl of olive oil and herbs. “Exactly. Priya would be good for him.”
I hide behind another sip of my drink, holding back my next snarky comment. The doorbell rings, and down the hall I hear the guest room door slam—Priya barricading herself until she gets her shit together.
“Can you grab that?” Mom asks. “My hands are all gloopy.”
I gulp down the rest of the White Russian and smack the glass on the counter before taking my sweet time sauntering to the front door. When I open it, Julian is scowling, phone pressed to his ear.
“Paz,” he says with a world-weary sigh. “Paz, stop. I can’t talk right now. Can we finish this later? Christ almighty. I’ll—” He cuts off and looks at the phone. “Great. Perfect.” Finally acknowledging me standing there, he offers a feeble smile. “She hung up.”
“Trouble in paradise?” I stand back to let him in, and when he walks through the doorway, he tries for a one-arm hug. I ward him off by raising one fist for a fist bump instead. “Yeah, no.”
He barely touches my hand with the side of his, then adjusts his duffel bag on one broad shoulder and pockets his phone before raking his overly long hair out of his sorta Hemsworth Brother–ish face. “House smells great,” he tells me as I close the door behind him.
“Definitely smells better than you.”
He dumps his bag at my feet. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and carry this?”
“Get bent. Carry your own shit.”
My father’s voice comes from the living room. “Stop squabbling, you two. Can we have a few minutes before the war kicks off?”
My brother goes in to greet Dad, and they walk together to the kitchen where my mom mops off her hands and flings her arms around her adored firstborn.
I lean in the doorway on the other side of the living room, watching them.
I know my bickering and distance with Jules doesn’t help in a family with parents who are already frosty with each other.
Priya comes up behind me and rests her chin on my shoulder. “Julian’s here already?” she says innocently.
“As if you wouldn’t sense that guy like a shark smelling a nosebleed a mile off. Sounds like he and the most recent girlfriend are on the outs, so here’s your chance, babes. Can’t say much for your taste, though.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m not his type at all.”
“Yeah, well… that fuckup is definitely your type—‘tall, dark, and disastrous.’” I reach back and pat her cheek. “Take my advice and steer clear. Remember when you didn’t listen to me and got ringworm from that box full of stray kittens?”
“Oh my God, Sage. We were eleven years old.”
“My point exactly. You still can’t resist a cuddly catastrophe.”
She hugs my shoulders, teasing, “That’s why I put up with you.”
It’s two in the morning, but I can’t sleep. There’s so much on my mind.
I escaped the post-dinner chitchat tonight with the excuse that I need to sleep before a long day of travel tomorrow. But really I was getting too much in my head, worrying about the upcoming season.
Everyone thinks I’m confident all the time, but… the weight of being a woman in a position this visible, of being “an inspiration” to a new generation of girls in motorsport, it’s heavy. Sometimes it feels like I’m not allowed to have needs.
Sick of tossing and turning, I get up and head for the kitchen to snag another one of the éclairs my mom made. The kitchen light is on. Julian stands near the sink with his back to me, shirtless, fiddling with something on the counter. He sniffles.
What the hell? Is he crying?
His head dips. Another sniff, followed by a tapping sound. He turns and spots me in the archway, his fingertip in his mouth… and suddenly I realize what he’s doing.
“What the fuck are you putting up your nose, you degenerate?”
He wipes his hand off on his plaid pajama bottoms. “Just… medicine.”
“Bullshit.” I cross the kitchen and snatch the orange pill bottle off the counter, but he grabs it back before I can read it. “Are those oxys?” I demand. “Fuck, Jules! Still?”
“It’s for my back! Because of the surgery after my fall at Tahquitz.”
“Oh, of course,” I say acidly. “I’m sure the bottle says to crush ’em up and snort rails—that’s the recommended method, right?”
He rakes a hand through his messy hair. “Can you crawl outta my ass? I just… sometimes I need it to kick in faster.”
“Your surgery was two years ago. I was on that stuff after my appendix, and they don’t give it to you for very long.”
“In my case not long enough. But I’m dealing with it, and it’s under control. This isn’t a fucking crisis.”
“You’re ‘dealing with it’? Like Uncle Russ did? Maybe go ask Mom how confident she is that you have it ‘under control.’ You remember how destroyed she was when he died.”
“Jesus, Sage! Don’t play that card. This isn’t the same.”