Chapter 12
Zaid
‘You’ve fucked up, mate.’ My cousin grimaces at me from across the jet, sprawled across the plush leather couch like this is his private plane instead of mine. ‘I mean, congrats and all of that, but your mother is not going to be happy.’
In the wide seat next to mine, Adnan nods along with Sami’s assessment, so solemn that you’d think I’d told him someone had died. Apparently, the news of Ava Farahani carrying my child is on par with that.
‘A child out of wedlock!’ Sami crows in put-on disappointment, sounding more like his mother than mine, but I get the point.
‘And not just that, but with a Persian girl.’ He throws up a hand for emphasis, letting it fall back to his chest with a dramatic thump.
‘Oh, Auntie Mariam is going to combust. I thought nothing would ever beat me coming out as bi in sixth form, but this absolutely takes the cake.’
I roll my eyes, bristling at his theatrics, but Sami unfortunately isn’t wrong in his assessment of the situation.
I’ve not just committed one of the worst crimes fathomable in our family – not being married before having a kid – but I’ve gone and done it with someone from a culture where there’s a history of tension with my own.
I take comfort in the fact that my mother is a level-headed woman, always putting logic before emotion, the person I inherited my not-particularly-reactionary personality from.
‘It’s going to be fine,’ I say, brushing him off, refusing to buy into his drama. ‘She accepted Emiko with no issues.’
‘She did, but your sister-in-law’s not from a country that was partially behind why our family left Iraq,’ he counters.
Most of our family emigrated in the late seventies, having seen the handwriting on the wall of war with Iran, but some stayed – and too many died in the eight years the war raged on.
But there have always been simmering tensions between the neighboring countries, spanning back millennia to empires come and gone.
Arab versus Persian, with a deep divide between ethnicity and language, despite being lumped together into the so-called Middle East by the Western powers that be.
We have horrible words for each other in Arabic and Farsi, learned early in life along with a healthy dose of skepticism toward one another, all because of tragic histories that neither side will ever forgive or forget.
My parents never taught me that prejudice, but I know how it lingers in communities and festers underneath the surface in families. And I don’t want to see it boil over when it comes to Ava.
‘Ava was born in the US. We’re both second generation.’ More West than East, as my grandmother would gripe. Always caught in the middle. Too much and not enough at the same time. Just another diaspora kid.
Sami shrugs and grabs a motorsport magazine off the side table, casually flipping through it. ‘Your mum might not care, but you think that matters to the whispering aunties? Ava and her family are still Iranian and you’re still Iraqi.’
‘And our kid is going to be both,’ I shoot back. ‘So everyone’s going to need to get the fuck over it. Khalas.’
I know he’s taking the piss and my reaction is excessive, but if I don’t shut down this kind of talk now, the situation will be unbearable by the time the baby’s born.
I refuse to bring a child into a family that won’t welcome them with open arms, and I won’t put Ava through that either.
I’d rather leave and build my own family.
‘Simmer down,’ Sami chides, flipping another page. ‘No use getting worked up about it before we even know what’s going to happen. Thank you for telling us first, though.’
I blow out a breath, stepping back from the ledge this conversation has pushed me onto.
I knew I’d have to tell Sami and Adnan immediately, considering they’re with me nearly twenty-four seven when we’re on the road.
If Ava chooses to join me, we’ll all be one big happy – slightly dysfunctional and strangely associated – family.
Even if she doesn’t, I’ll still need Adnan to organize security for her, and Sami to coordinate our schedules. It’ll be a group effort.
‘Do you actually want to do this?’
I glance over at Adnan, processing his quiet question and trying not to be offended by the doubt in his voice. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Are you ready to be a father?’ he presses, doubling down instead of taking anything back. ‘This is going to change your life completely.’
I scoff. He can’t really think I don’t know that or that I haven’t considered how different things are going to look for not only me but Ava too.
‘Is anyone ever really ready?’ I pose. But Adnan doesn’t ease up at my rhetorical query, and I’m left to level him with a stare. ‘I want this. I don’t have a single doubt in my head about it.’
‘And what about Ava?’
It’s Sami who asks this time, and my eyes cut in his direction. ‘What about her?’
He blows out a breath, like I’m being purposefully obtuse. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at her,’ he explains, waiting for me to put the pieces together. ‘How you’ve looked at her for a long time.’
‘Jesus, am I not allowed to admire a beautiful woman without you being on my case about it?’ I fire back. But I know what he’s hinting at and what he wants me to admit, yet I have no plans to confess it unless he leads me straight into those dangerous waters.
‘So you want this baby, fine,’ he says, and here it comes. ‘But do you want Ava too?’
More than I should, I nearly tell him. But I’m not sure if she wants me in the same way.
‘This is a platonic thing,’ I say instead.
Sami squints at me. ‘Platonic? Oh, come on.’
‘Look, right now, the focus is on raising a child together. We decided we don’t need extra complications, and I’m not going to push the issue.’
Sami and Adnan share a loaded glance that leaves me sinking down in my seat, already knowing I’ll be a useless mess until Ava gives me her answer.
——
I wake with a start when the jet’s wheels touch down.
I don’t remember falling asleep, and my phone’s still in my hand with a half-drafted reply in a long chain of emails with my manager, my personal PR team, and my legal team.
Instead of napping early to save myself the pain of jet lag upon arriving in London, I stayed up far too late trying to get ahead of whatever Ava and I might be met with upon announcing her pregnancy.
The chain is full of warnings to heed and advice to take and several different game plans revolving around whether this is going to be a civil co-parenting relationship or one that will land us in a nasty international custody battle.
Is it early to be worrying about a lot of this? Most likely. But the idea of waiting and wondering and not being in control of the situation when the news breaks has planted a seed of fear in my gut that I don’t want growing any bigger.
The flight crew has already opened the door and lowered the jet’s steps by the time I get my shit together enough to unbuckle my seat belt and stand, my knees, hips, and back stiff from sitting.
I canceled on my trainer yesterday for our post-race session in order to talk to Ava, and while I don’t regret it, I wish I’d squeezed one in before flying home.
It’s times like this when I’m reminded that I’m not as young as I once was, and even when crashes don’t result in catastrophic injuries, they all add up.
It’s also a reminder that I can’t keep doing this forever. I certainly don’t want to, especially not now, with a baby on the way. I’ve pressed my luck for years and it almost ran out last September – I can’t keep risking my life if I’m serious about being there for my kid.
But leaving Formula 1 isn’t an option yet.
I can’t walk away before this season’s over, thanks to contracts and promises and the guilt that I’m not living up to what my father would have expected of me, even though all he wanted was for me to be happy.
But how can I be happy if I don’t give my all for at least one last season?
How can I be happy quitting now if I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering if this was the year I could have won an eighth title? I have to see it through.
It’s a typical gloomy English morning when I duck out of the plane, and I only have to pause a moment for my eyes to adjust to the sunlight filtering through the clouds, a stark contrast to Miami’s bright blue skies.
Behind me, Sami sighs, mumbling to himself about the joys of our weather.
I’m about to tell him that we can head home to Monaco as soon as I’ve handled all my business here, but my phone buzzes in my hand, cutting the thought and my movements short when I see the name on the screen.
Sami slaps a hand down on my shoulder to keep from running into me, but I barely notice as I press the phone to my ear and cover the other to block out the noise of the private hangar. ‘Ava?’
There’s a beat of crackling silence. ‘Hi,’ she finally says. The word is so hesitant that it’s nearly a whisper.
I’m immediately alert, the dregs of sleep gone and my mind spinning with worry. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ she rushes to say. ‘I just . . . I wanted to tell you I’ve made up my mind.’
I check my watch, counting the hours and converting time zones. It’s been barely twelve hours since we last spoke, and considering it’s morning for me, it’s the middle of the night for her back in the US.
‘I can’t face your family yet,’ she goes on remorsefully. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No apologies,’ I remind her as I start moving down the steps again, much to Sami’s relief. ‘I have it handled.’
She exhales softly, like she’s gearing up to share something else. ‘I’m going to tell my dad the news in person at the next grand prix.’
My brow lifts in surprise. ‘Are you sure you want to do it then?’
‘What, are you afraid I’m going to ruin his race weekend?’ she asks dryly.
I can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes me, and I ignore the strange glance Adnan shoots me over his shoulder. ‘Wouldn’t be opposed to it.’
‘It seems like the best time,’ she explains. ‘It’s hard to pin him down and I didn’t want to take any extra flights trying to find him. Figured I’d already need to be at Imola for the race, so . . .’
I pause, trying to read between the lines of what she’s saying, but I’m too tired to figure it out. ‘Are you saying that I’ll see you in Italy?’
‘I am.’ She takes a breath, and she sounds a little more confident in her choices when she speaks again. ‘We can consider the races in Italy and Monaco a test run. Two weeks of traveling together. If things go okay, I’ll join you for as much of the season as I can.’
The weight that lifts from my shoulders is immense, enough to make me nearly stumble from the respite. ‘Thank you, Ava. This means a lot to me.’
She’s quiet for a few beats, long enough that I wonder if the call’s dropped, but then she speaks again. ‘We’ll see how it goes,’ she says, and it’s a reminder that this is only the start of everything.
We still have so many bumps in the road ahead of us.