Chapter 21 #2
There’s the obvious worry – the one of literally losing him.
Counting today, there are still thirteen grands prix left in the season, thirteen more weekends of him risking his life in a race car.
My stomach churns to even consider it, but I’ve seen how easily lives can be taken and changed in this sport.
There’s no guarantee that anyone will walk away safely, and it’s bad enough to worry about him as a friend, an idol, and the father of my child.
But as more than that? It might break me completely.
Barring that horror, there’s the ever-present fear of him just up and leaving me.
Of him saying he’s done and walking away.
It’s happened to me before and it can happen again, and while I can’t imagine him doing that, I can’t rule it out.
How badly would that hurt me, especially considering there’s going to be a child involved?
Then there’s the simple fact that the consequences of things going wrong between us are higher than if he were a normal person.
We have the press to worry about, plus his reputation, and I’ve already had my life turned upside down twice now from being involved with him.
A high-profile breakup would mean increased scrutiny and no privacy for not just us, but our kid too.
And what if things go so badly that they end in legal battles and ugly custody fights?
For the sake of our child, maybe I shouldn’t ruin the careful balance we’ve established.
But . . . what if things go right? What if we can be the family the world at large already thinks we are? What if I can get everything that I dreamed of once upon a time – not just the baby, but the partner too? What if I have a chance at the love I’ve always wanted?
‘I’m afraid of messing everything up,’ I hear myself say a moment later, and then I scald the confession away with a gulp of tea.
She levels me with a no-nonsense stare. ‘Messes are part of life. You know that.’ When I don’t immediately reply, she rolls her eyes and goes on.
‘If things don’t work out, then you just go back to being friends and co-parents.
You’re both level-headed adults, and there are plenty of children whose parents aren’t together who grow up to be wonderful people.
Don’t let that fear stop you from letting love in. ’
As I choke on my tea at her invocation of the L-word, she sets her cup down and pushes it away.
‘Or at least don’t let it stop you from getting your rocks off once you’re allowed to again,’ she says airily.
‘I know what those pregnancy hormones are like, and you are really missing out on some fantastic orgasms.’
‘Oh my god, Edith,’ I groan, but it’s practically a laugh as the tension breaks.
‘Just telling you the truth,’ she says, glancing down at her watch.
‘Look, I’ve got to run. I promised Thomas we’d chat before the race starts.
But everything’s going to be okay. You just need to stop being a chicken and tell that man you’re ready to wife him up.
’ Her gaze darts away from me when she notices someone coming our way, but it’s back with the addition of a knowing grin when she sees it’s Mariam.
‘Have fun with your future mother-in-law.’
She presses a kiss to my flaming cheek before striding off, nodding to Mariam as they pass each other. Zaid’s mother watches Edith go with thinly veiled amusement before her attention shifts to me.
‘Come,’ she says, a command as she nods to the doors of the motorhome. ‘It’s going to rain soon. Let’s get you and my granddaughter to the garage to wish Zaid good luck.’
I hesitate when she holds her hand out to me, but the expectant arch of her eyebrow has me lacing our fingers together, and I let her guide me through the maze of tables and team members until we’re down the front steps and out in the paddock.
The air is thick and heavy with an impending storm, and Mariam tugs me closer until we’re shoulder to shoulder, her narrowed eyes on the photographers flocking our way.
‘Smile for the vultures, habibti,’ she instructs.
My smile might have been fake without her deadpan delivery, but with it, I’m grinning. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the past few days, it’s that Zaid is the carbon copy of his mother, dry and witty and sly.
It’s strange to be mothered again, and there are moments when I want to pull away from the tenderness Mariam shows me, not sure how to receive it.
But every move she makes toward me is the same one I want to perform for my daughter one day.
I want to brush the lint from her blouse and smooth the flyaway baby hairs that escape her ponytail.
I want to sneak her little treats and fuss when she’s not drinking enough water.
I want to lovingly tease her about her crushes and jokingly roll my eyes when she denies them.
Little things, all of them, but every single one is drenched in love.
I let her keep me close as we walk toward the garage, listening fondly as she recounts the story of how she once took a garden hose to a horde of paparazzi who had set up camp outside her house in an attempt to get photos of Zaid.
I laugh when she proudly describes how much one of them looked like a drowned rat, but the sound dies in my throat when I spot my dad walking in our direction.
He’s flanked by Specter Energy’s technical director on one side and the sporting director on the other, each one angled in to hear whatever he’s animatedly speaking about. He hasn’t spotted me yet, which is probably for the best, because I have no idea how a public confrontation might go.
It’s been nearly two months and the only communication we’ve had is one email last week – as if we’re colleagues and not father and daughter – in which he inquired about my health.
My reply was probably a little too heartfelt, telling him everything I’ve been eager to share about the experience so far and how excited I am for the future.
I even went so far as to invite him out for dinner whenever he’s next free.