Chapter 3 #2
Back then, Deschamp was an upper-midfield team but hadn’t won a championship – Drivers’ or Constructors’ – in over a decade.
Zaid was already a champion in his own right after working his way up the junior formulae, and the hope was that he’d be the team’s savior.
Of course, the media doubted his abilities, claiming he was an overpriced acquisition and would burn out under the lights in no time.
And, unsurprisingly, there was plenty of racist rhetoric to go along with it. God forbid a brown man find success.
Deschamp won the Constructors’ Championship that year. And Zaid was only a single point shy of winning the Drivers’ Championship, claiming second place behind his veteran teammate.
He’s more than made up for that ‘loss’ – and silenced the loudest naysayers – in the years since, having won seven Drivers’ Championships across two different teams. It likely would have been eight by now if Lorenzo Castellucci hadn’t nearly killed him last season.
And that’s why his answer of fine to my inquiry into how he’s been makes me wince.
‘Sorry, that was the worst question I could have asked,’ I say as I pluck up my glass, determined to hide my flushed cheeks behind it.
Zaid huffs what I think is a laugh. ‘Don’t worry about it. I just don’t know what else to tell people at this point.’
He blinks once, lips dipping into a frown, like he can’t believe he’s confessed it, but I have to respect that he doesn’t backpedal or overexplain in response. He just allows the words to settle between us and lets me decide how to take them.
‘So, are you not fine?’ I ask casually. ‘If you aren’t, feel free to unload on me, because then I’ll be able to eat all our food in peace while you carry the conversation.’
My hope is that he’ll rise to my jokes, but he shakes his head instead. ‘Believe me,’ he murmurs, ‘it’s nothing you want to hear about.’
I heave a dramatic sigh as the bartender returns with three greasy baskets. ‘All right. But if you’re not gonna do that, will you at least tell me all of Mascort’s engineering secrets so I can get something juicy out of this conversation?’
This time, he genuinely snorts before finishing off his drink. ‘Eat your chips, Ava.’
Heat rushes through me at hearing my name on his lips, pleased by the way he always makes the soft vowels of the Farsi pronunciation sound like a melody.
I pop a fry in my mouth to disguise my delight, then nod when the bartender asks if we want another round of drinks. She’s kind enough to make them doubles.
I feel Zaid’s gaze land on me when she walks off to clean glasses at the other end of the bar, and I nearly start babbling to get him to stop looking at me so intensely. But he’s the one who doesn’t want to talk, and I’m not about to talk at him, so I eat more fries and . . . wait.
I’ve knocked out half a basket and a tumbler of bourbon, and I’m in the middle of thinking about grabbing the hot dog when he finally says, ‘Let me ask you something.’
I nearly sigh in relief, reaching for my fresh drink. Good thing Edith’s flat is only a couple of blocks from here, because I’m already buzzed.
‘Why did you come outside that day?’
I freeze mid-sip, confused. But then it hits me: his father’s memorial service.
Even though it would be hard to forget everything about that day – and everything it led to – I never thought we’d talk about it.
For me, our moment together was a secret I planned to take to the grave, something Zaid and I would simply pretend never happened.
But then the photos hit the internet and so did the false narrative about our supposed secret relationship, so we were forced to address it, though it never involved us talking directly.
But considering how hard he’s staring at me right now, I guess we’re about to.
I slowly lower the glass and wet my lips.
‘I wasn’t stalking you or anything,’ I begin, needing to get that out of the way.
I don’t want him to think I was lying in wait to catch him at his most vulnerable moment.
‘I was there with my dad to pay our respects, and I was standing near the doors to the churchyard when you disappeared outside. When you walked by, you . . . you had this look on your face that didn’t seem right.
You were so calm, but there was something happening under the surface.
I think it was the moment when everything really hit you. ’
It had been a few weeks since his father’s sudden heart attack, and while I’m sure his grief in the direct aftermath was awful, I knew how the reality of loss didn’t always sink in until later.
Some of his intensity softens as he nods, a small acknowledgment that I’m right.
‘Well, I didn’t want you to face it alone,’ I go on, fingers drifting up and down in the condensation on the glass. ‘My mom died when I was fourteen, so I know what it’s like to lose a parent. I thought you might need someone who understood in that moment.’
I leave out how I didn’t have anyone to help me through it, to hold me while I cried, to tell me it wouldn’t always feel so raw.
Dad shut down in the days and weeks and months after, throwing himself into work and the world of Formula 1.
I was left to grieve alone, something I don’t think I’ll ever fully forgive him for but have pointedly chosen to move on from.
‘You were right,’ Zaid admits, glancing away before his eyes settle on me again. ‘I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come out there. And I never thanked you for it.’
I lift my glass and tilt it jokingly toward the fries.
‘I think you covering our tab tonight will be a proper show of gratitude.’ When Zaid doesn’t crack a smile at my attempt to lighten the mood, I lower my drink again and hold his gaze, trying not to admire the little flecks of ebony and gold in his eyes.
‘But you’ve never needed to thank me. I went out there to check on you because I wanted to, not because I expected anything in return. ’
Zaid stares back, and I swear he can see past all the fronts I’ve ever put on. It’s unnerving and electrifying at the same time.
‘I don’t think you expected the tabloids to call you a—’ He cuts short, tongue pressing against his top lip as he tries to remember. ‘What was the headline again?’
I snicker. ‘“Specter’s Spy,”’ I quote, which was the favored nickname for me. ‘“The predatory Persian princess looking for a payday.” Horrible thing to say, obviously, but I have to respect the alliteration.’
Zaid isn’t as amused. Can’t blame him – it took me a while to get to a point where the words no longer stung and I could laugh at the outrageousness of the situation instead of crying over how it alienated me further from my father, ruined my career, and excommunicated me from the sport I loved.
But then the corner of his mouth tugs up, a bare hint of a dimple appearing in his stubbled cheek. God, he’s too pretty for his own good, the only man I’ve ever considered tossing away my no-dating-drivers rule for, even though he’d be the absolute worst choice.
Then again, no one said I had to date him. I’m not looking for a boyfriend or a husband, and I certainly don’t want him for a baby daddy. God, of every man I know, he would be the worst choice I could make.
But maybe one night would be enough to break me out of whatever spell he’s had me under for ages . . .
I know I shouldn’t. It’s a very bad idea to hook up with the man who’s caused me so much trouble. Yet the bourbon has me thinking about the possibility, and about just how good it could be.
‘At least they called you a princess,’ he says, voice so deep and smooth that my toes curl inside my shoes. ‘That bit suits you.’
‘Why, thank you.’ I curtsy the best I can while sitting, then try not to groan at the absurdity of it. ‘My dad was livid when that article came out,’ I go on to cover my embarrassment, ‘but I think he secretly liked that they called him “Specter’s shah,” messed up as it was.’
‘Remember when they claimed we had a “tumultuous breakup”’ – he sarcastically adds the air quotes – ‘and called it “the new Iran–Iraq War”?’
‘The one and only time they issued a retraction because it rightfully pissed off so many people.’
‘Yeah, it was ugly.’ He blows out a breath. ‘I’m sorry you went through that.’
I wave off his apology because, again, it’s something I’ve made myself move on from. ‘It’s in the past. The press doesn’t care about me these days, thankfully.’