Chapter 14
Matt
I fucked up.
After our song, as Chloe heads toward our table, I head to the bathroom, slapping myself on each cheek in front of the mirror. “Pull yourself the fuck together, dude,” I bark at my reflection. I look tipsy. I look bleary-eyed. I look ridiculous.
I’m not thinking straight when it comes to Chloe. I was hoping singing our karaoke song would ease the tension, but it was painfully obvious she hated it. And me. I’m not navigating my growing feelings for her very well, and all I know is I fucking want her. More than anything I’ve ever wanted.
The banter. The teasing her. The trying to make light of everything. It’s bullshit. I’m just fucking flirting, and it’s clearly making things worse.
“Chloe left. What’s up with her?” Archie asks when I return to the table. “I thought she loved karaoke?”
“Times have changed,” I say, dropping back down onto the seat next to him. “Is she coming back?”
“Dude, she looked upset,” Archie says, leaning into me and dropping his voice as much as is possible in this cacophony. Someone on the mic is belting out quite an impressive cover of “Summer of ’69.”
“Yes, seems so,” I murmur, pushing the hair back from my face.
“Matt,” says Archie. “Wanna talk?”
“Not really.”
“Is she still in love with you or something?”
“What do you mean still in love with me?” I shoot back.
“Come on, Matty,” Archie says, folding his arms. “You’re no fool, my dude. She has feelings for you. She always did.”
“She didn’t,” I say, as the thought unsettles me. “She didn’t even come to my leaving party.”
“She did,” Archie says.
“She told me she didn’t.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this, but hell, since you both won’t talk about it.” Archie takes a swig of his beer. “She didn’t come into the party that night, but I saw her loitering around outside. She looked really upset.”
I turn my head to stare at Archie. I’m not sure I can absorb what he’s saying. She came to my big send-off party to F1, but she didn’t come in? What happened?
“No way,” I say, picking up a shot glass and then tossing it back down. “Even if what you’re saying is true and Chloe had feelings for me back then, I think it’s definitely the other way around now.”
“Either way, she’s the fucking boss, isn’t she?” Archie says, dropping his voice.
“I know, Archie.”
Damn. This situation sucks. I thought that old song of ours would be fun to sing. I thought that being playful and trying to have a laugh could be a good way to move on from it. Because lord knows I am struggling to move on from it.
“Buongiorno, gentlemen,” a voice says, and I glance up to see Marco, my replacement driver from Rossini, with a few of the crew behind him.
They’re drinking champagne. Of course they are, they just got another podium.
“We heard you were out celebrating,” he adds with a wry smile.
He’s teasing, but I’m in no mood for it.
“We’re masochists,” I say dryly.
I sink into my seat as Archie stands up and hugs him warmly. Sometimes I wish Archie wasn’t such a lovable guy and had at least one bad bone in his body.
“Matt, you taking up singing now?” Marco says in a beautiful, thick Italian accent.
“Matt’s always been a bit of a singer,” bellows Archie, cackling before downing another shot.
“You found a new talent at last, Grandpa?” Marco says, grinning, and Archie guffaws even harder.
Behind him, a couple of statuesque girls hang off the arms of some of his team.
I stare hard at one of the girls and she smiles coyly back, her eyelashes fluttering.
Part of me wants to respond. To turn it on for her and take her back to the hotel with me.
She’s not Chloe, though.
“That’s right,” I say, dragging my eyes back to the shot glass on the table.
I sink further into my seat. Not now. Not a gloating Rossini. It’s the last thing I need.
I know he’s just trash-talking. I know it’s a bit of fun.
I know that Marco is a nice dude, really, but there’s a little sting in the tail.
Everyone who leaves Rossini feels the loss.
They’re the greatest team in the world, legacy-wise.
And when you’re in, you’re in. When you’re out, you’re out. It’s heartbreaking.
I glance up and see the girl with the eyelashes looking like she wants to play. But as Marco slides into the booth across from me, I feel suddenly clear.
“Archie, I have to go,” I say, standing up.
“Be careful, Matt,” he says, shaking his head.
When Chloe isn’t in her room at the hotel, I don’t have to think hard to figure out where she could be.
And so, here I am, at two a.m., back in our garage on the circuit, avoiding the eyes of the shipping crews and cleaners as I pick my way through the almost-empty lot and to the back door of Arden.
She’s there, as I knew she would be. Sitting on a crate, playing with a carbon fiber engine part, looking so damn sad. And so beautiful. The garage is still thick with the smells of race weekend—fuel, burned rubber—but there’s also a treacly hint of whiskey in the air.
“Chloe,” I say quietly, making her leap.
“Fuck!” she says, clutching her heart. “Matt.”
I spy a tiny bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the floor just behind her.
“I took it from the hotel,” she says, her face flat. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to find you. I wanted to see if you were okay.”
I’m not sure whether to go sit with her or to keep my distance, so instead I stand in my spot, trying to force myself to look straight. She pushes herself up off the crate.
“No, you didn’t,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“I did. Really.”
“I saw what you were doing tonight. What are you getting at? What is your end goal?” she asks.
“With what?” I ask, taking a step closer to her. I’m dangerously, furiously close to grabbing her by the waist and pulling her into me again. For a hug. For more. For whatever she needs.
Chloe puts a hand on the crate to steady herself.
“With this,” she says again, gesturing between us. “You know this can’t happen.”
“I know. I know. I just . . . wanted to find you. Make sure you’re okay,” I say, studying her as she pushes her long hair over her shoulder and tips her head, fixing her bleary eyes on mine. Wait. Has she been crying?
“Are you mad at me?” I ask.
“Matt,” she sighs, kicking the floor. “Please, just go.”
“The karaoke,” I say suddenly. “That’s what upset you. Our song.”
“Our song,” she says bitterly. “It’s just a dumb song.”
I can tell by the way her eyes dart to the floor that she’s trying to be tough. I think about what Archie said back in the bar, that Chloe had feelings for me back then, and I try to reconcile it with my own memories. Is it really true? Was it serious? Did I feel it? Did I know?
I look at her now, and realize that somewhere in the depths of myself, I did know.
“You were sort of like a sister to me, growing up,” I say.
Chloe looks up at me and sighs. “So?”
“Your dad called my dad and asked me to look out for you,” I say, completely unaware where I’m going with the confession, but feeling like I need to put everything out there for her.
“Oh,” she says, taking a step back, laughing to herself. “So that’s why you hung out with me all those years ago.” She picks up the bottle and tosses it into a nearby garbage bag. “Of course. Everything makes sense now.”
“I’m just saying that my dad asked me to—”
“No need to explain. I get it. Sorry for the trouble,” she says, sweeping her hands in front of her as if to say, Enough. “The humiliation is officially complete.”
“Wait,” I say. “What humiliation?”
She looks up at me, her eyes tired, and I feel a deep ache in my chest.
“What I’m trying to say is that you were someone I had to look out for, so I would never have .
. . crossed any lines back then or whatever.
” I’m struggling to find the right words, too unsure to ask her outright if she had feelings for me back then.
No. I’m not going to ask that. I can’t demand that of her now.
I just need to finally be honest with myself and her.
“And I’m really sorry I ran out on our friendship.”
Chloe stills. She raises her hands to her face and becomes completely quiet, breathing into her hands.
I move toward her, pulling her hands from her face and forcing her chin upward. Close up I can definitely see she has been crying. Her big brown eyes are red and her makeup is smeared.
“Our friendship wasn’t just a thing my dad asked me to do,” I say.
“You meant a lot. I loved that stupid song. I loved hanging out with you. And now I just keep thinking of you, and us, and how it feels like there is something special here. And I’m wondering if it was always maybe, potentially there, but I just didn’t want to acknowledge it. I was leaving, you know?”
“You were an asshole,” she says. I search her eyes, as I slide an arm around her waist and pull her closer to me. All I can do is show her I don’t feel that way now. “You never spoke to me again,” she says.
“I know,” I say, rubbing at her streaky tears with my thumb.
“I’m sorry. I worked so hard to get to Rossini, and I thought that was the most important thing in my life.
I just had that singular focus. It’s a dumb excuse, and I’m ashamed of it and know it doesn’t fix what I did, but it’s the only one I have. ”
We stare at each other for a moment, our eyes burrowing deep into each other. And then I lean forward and kiss her gently on the cheek, just below her eye, the taste of salty tears on my lips.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just fucked off like that. I should have realized how special you were back then. I should have seen what was right in front of me. But, Chloe, I see it now. It feels real.”
I kiss her once more on the other cheek.
“I don’t want to cry over you again,” she says.
She feels so light in my arms, her body molding into mine the more we stand here.
I kiss her again, this time on the lips, and when I do, everything around me disappears.
My whole world shrinks into the soft contact of our lips.
I hear the gentlest of moans escape her lips and I feel myself melting into her softness.
“I am sorry,” I whisper into her mouth.
I feel so bad for hurting her, and I’m suddenly seized with the repercussions of it. She can’t let me in now. There’s no way she trusts me, even if we could somehow get past the working-together complication.
“I can do better. I can be better,” I say to her, to myself, before kissing her top lip again, gently. But then she lifts her hands up and cradles my face, and pushes me gently back, shaking her head.
Even through those tears, she looks so beautiful. “I can’t. I just can’t,” she says. “Because now it’s my turn, Matt. I finally have this thing that I have worked my whole life toward. And I need to make it work, without distraction.”
“But couldn’t we just see—”
“No, Matt,” she says, suddenly angry as she pulls farther back. “Besides, you’re dealing with your own demons right now. If I help put you back together, will you still feel this way toward me? I really fucking doubt it.”
I let go of her waist, feeling frustrated as I step back from her. She’s so wrong, but I don’t know how to convince her. Chloe lifts her shirt to blot gently at the dampness under her eyes.
“Let me do my job, Matt,” she says, in barely a whisper. “Please.”
I feel lost. I want her so much, but not this way. I know what it’s like to forget everyone and focus on your dream. I want that for her too. I want to see her happy and for her to have everything she wants. So for now, this has to be enough.
“Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry. Let’s focus on work. On finishing this season strong,” I mutter.
She sends me a knowing half smile in return, picking up the carbon fiber part she was playing with when I arrived. “And on that subject,” she says, swallowing.
“Yes?” My throat is dry too. I’m suddenly thirsty.
She turns the part over in her hands. “I was sitting here thinking of how we can claw back time, and I had an idea.”
“What kind of idea?” I steady my voice.
“About a head of aerodynamics,” she says. “You know, we can’t afford the kind of person we need. I understand Barry is under pressure. But there is someone . . .”
The thought comes to me like a bolt out of the blue.
“Jasper Cox,” I say, almost gasping. What an idea.
“What happened to him? Everyone says he was fired. A drunk?”
“He wasn’t fired, but he was a drunk,” I say, raising both eyebrows conspiratorially as Chloe stands a little straighter. “He went through some family stuff and Rossini waited as long as they could. But, Chloe . . .”
“He’s retired. Living in Mexico now,” she says, nodding.
“Apparently. So, what are you thinking?”
“Are you going home before the next race?” she asks.
I smile, catching on to her train of thought.
“No,” I reply, pulling my phone out of my back pocket. “Due to fly to the Mexican Grand Prix day after tomorrow.”
“Let’s go earlier,” she says. “Let’s find Jasper and see if he wants to help us beat Rossini.”