Chapter 19
Chloe
This might be a dumb thing to do, but fuck it.
There are two beat-up old go-karts at my feet, which I’ve hauled out of the trailer attached to my dad’s truck.
Although it’s only slightly cool, I dress warm, wearing a denim Levi’s racing suit emblazoned with McLaren logos.
It was a Christmas gift from Keyla that I clearly can’t wear publicly, but it’s perfect for a secret night race against Matt.
It is a fast fifteen-minute drive to Silverstone, and despite attempts to fully close off this circuit to the public, I have always known where the gaps in the fences are.
And so has Matt.
I spot what looks like a Toyota Corolla pull up at the back gate, and stiffen as the headlights pass over me. I can’t be caught already, can I?
But as the driver emerges and Matt’s familiar silhouette walks toward me, jingling his keys, I realize he’s taken his mum’s little hatchback.
“I thought it was more clandestine,” he says, looking like he’s about to hug me, but then he hesitates and it’s immediately awkward.
“It’s been a while,” I say. “I hope there’s no new security measures.”
“Unlikely after a decade,” he says, smirking.
“We’re so going to get caught.”
“Isn’t that half the fun?” Matt grins. He looks so handsome, his eyes sparkling under the cool blue moonlight. I bite my lip and smile.
It isn’t long before we’ve unlatched the karts and pulled them through the fencing. We’re rolling them as quietly as we can to the starting grid. Matt can’t stop laughing, and I’m frantically trying to shush him and wind up in a giggling fit myself.
“We’re a disgrace,” I chuckle, hauling my kart into pole position.
“Nothing changes, Bug,” he agrees, dropping the front of his kart into second position. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you took pole position there, Coleman.”
“You probably don’t remember, but I won the last race,” I shoot back.
He puts his hands on his hips and tips his head. “Actually, it was the late summer of twenty twelve or twenty thirteen. And I won that race. I remember because you threw a banana peel at me, which hit me in the face.”
I am stunned into silence. I didn’t think he would remember. The memory, his remembering, it clutches at my heart in a way I’m not ready for, and I look away, down to my kart.
“Cat got your tongue, Coleman? Your dirty Mario Kart tricks didn’t work, did they?”
I take a few steps toward him and put my fingers on the zipper of my racing suit, unzipping the front slowly.
“That isn’t going to work either,” he says, as his eyes drop to my fingers. “Well. Maybe it will.”
“Looks like it might,” I say, unable to stop laughing as I reach inside the suit and pull out a ripe banana.
“You are the worst,” he says, his eyes darting from the banana to my unzipped racing suit, which is showing off a hint of lace from my bra. I zip it back up and toss the banana into the back of my kart.
“You have to eat it first, you know. I’m pretty sure it has to be a skin, not a whole banana.”
“I’m too full of the seventy-thousand-course dinner my mum just forced me to eat.”
Matt taps his belly, laughing. “Same.”
I glance over at the karts. “Shall we?”
I watch as Matt climbs into his kart, his knees jutting awkwardly up and his arms ridiculously long for the wheel-to-seat space. He’s all pointy elbows and tight angles.
“You look like a pretzel made to look like Matt Warner,” I say, climbing more easily into my own kart before I jam the ignition and we’re off.
As we speed around the track, Matt hangs just behind me, as he always does. Looking back over my shoulder, I shoot him a mischievous grin as I move my kart in front to block any moves.
He’s right on my tail, the delight of racing me all over his face.
He pretends to make a serious move to overtake, but then eases off the throttle, allowing me to maintain my lead.
The little shit. I grin as he pushes me, moving round so we’re side by side.
He sticks his tongue out and tries to push but I cruise ahead.
“Don’t just let me win,” I shout over my shoulder. “Fight, you bugger.”
“You’re too aggressive,” he shouts.
After a bit of toe-to-toe down the final straight, I cross the line just ahead of him, my smile stretching wide. He pulls up next to me, laughing, and I shake my head at him.
“I’ll take the win,” I say, breathless and exhilarated. “Even if it was given to me.”
“Best of three?” he says, and before I have a chance to respond, he’s off again around the track. The bastard. I hit the throttle, ready to chase.
After three rounds, with me winning two to one, we’ve both finally had enough.
“We better get off the grid,” he says, pointing to a flood-light that has been triggered by our movement at the far end of the pit.
We roll the karts back toward the gap in the fence, then load them into the trailer before I reach into the back seat of the truck and pull out a beer.
“Wanna share one?” I ask, holding it out toward him.
“Up on the mound,” he says, nodding toward the grassy hill that rises above the track.
We wander together, the sparkly fun of our race still invigorating me, sweat on my forehead, cheeks inevitably pink from the thrill.
I take a seat on the dry grass and Matt drops heavily down next to me.
I twist the top off the bottle and hand it to Matt, who takes a thirsty glug and hands it back.
“Nice to be home?” he asks me.
“Yeah. Grounding as ever,” I say, laughing. “My dad tells me he called your dad when you moved to Arden. They’re talking about throwing a joint party for us when we get back at the end of the year.”
“Oh god,” he says, laughing. “Please, no.”
“They’re good. But my dad talks to me about F1 as though I’m not a team principal, or if I am, do I really know what I’m doing?” I say, swigging back the beer. “I can take the misogyny, but it’s hard from your own dad.”
“He must be a little proud.”
“Oh, they are both so proud. I love them so much, don’t get me wrong.
But Dad has enough secondhand impostor syndrome for the both of us,” I say, thinking back to his nervous face as he drilled me about all my decisions so far.
Most of which I had to answer with “I don’t know yet,” because I genuinely don’t know yet. I need more time.
“Dads have more impact than they know,” Matt says, looking up at the full moon. “Sometimes it’s what they don’t say that you learn the biggest lessons from.”
I’m not sure what he is getting at exactly, but I have my suspicions. His dad is a closed book, and as a young girl I found his quiet judgment a little scary. But Matt doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t want to push him after the Stavros conversation in Mexico.
The breeze is cool against my bare forearms, and I’m pleased to have escaped the vast heat of Mexico. We can see the finish line. The end of the season is nearing, and still we have so much to achieve. So much to do to keep Arden alive and afloat. Ninth place is fantastic, but can it be sustained?
And at the end of the season, what will Matt and I be to each other?
“I’m sorry for coming at you after the race,” I say quietly.
He breathes a heavy sigh. “It’s okay. My mum just did the same.” His tone is even, maybe a bit amused at being ganged up on by two strong women in his life. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
I take a breath. “Don’t you think it’s the missing piece of the puzzle here, though?”
“Yep. Probably.”
I take another sip, wondering whether to push him as a team principal or as a friend. It feels like I’m not confident enough in either role to know what is best.
“But honestly, Chloe,” he says, dropping his eyes to the grass, his elbows resting on his knees.
“Even if Stavros forgave me. Even if he told me it wasn’t my fault.
I know it was. I did that. Years of overconfidence in the fastest car on the grid, and then a few months of frustration. I was reckless on the track that day.”
“All good drivers have those days,” I say reassuringly. “Verstappen, Sainz, even Hamilton.”
“I scared myself,” he says. “Do I know the difference between aggressive, determined driving and risk-taking? Like, for example, you know when you’re normie road driving, and you have the chance to overtake a tractor or a cyclist or something?
You learn when to pull out, after years of experience.
You know where the risk line is. Where it’s safe for you, but also safe for the person you’re overtaking.
It used to be my greatest skill that I could push that line to the limit.
It’s a driver’s greatest instinct, really.
And now, I’m not sure I know where that line is.
The line is blurred, and it’s killed my confidence. ”
I feel a tug in my heart for Matt and let him know with a gentle hand on his arm.
“So yeah, I need to see Stavros. To let him know how sorry I am for putting him in that position. But I also need the confidence to not think I’m going to kill everyone I overtake.”
“Go and see him,” I say. “Promise me.”
He nods.
“It was one mistake, Matt.”
“I should never have made it,” he says, turning his head toward me.
“We all make mistakes,” I say, feeling the air shift around me as our eyes connect.
“Yeah, and I seem to keep on making them,” he says. “I’m so glad I can talk to you about this. I can’t talk to anyone about it. Not Stavros, not anyone.”
I search his face in the low light, looking for any hint of a double meaning behind his eyes.
And then I curse myself for thinking about him, about us, in this moment.
And yet, here we are. Back where we were over a decade ago, on this very hill, with Matt sharing his darkest thoughts and feelings with me, in a way he doesn’t do with anyone else.
And here I am, listening, caring, and wanting to kiss all those sad thoughts away.
“Chloe?” he says, frowning as he takes in my expression.