Chapter 24
Matt
Keep pushing, Matt!” Archie’s voice crackles in my ear. But I can tell by his tone he’s worried. I came in late, I avoided everyone, and now I’m driving like I’m unhinged,and not in a good way.
I try to navigate each corner with as much accuracy as I can, but my scattered brain continues to distract me.
The car is responding quickly to every precise turn, but every imprecise one too.
She’s really a beautiful car now. Incredible what Chloe and the team have managed to get done in her short spell here.
Shame it’s wasted on a shit driver like me.
No sooner are my thoughts on Chloe than they pounce on her betrayal, and my body stiffens, as if bracing itself for the hurt. The car careens dangerously close to the barrier.
And then I remember that the whole world knows I’ve been too gutless to face my friend. That I let a few difficult moments scare me off from doing the right thing. That I should have camped outside that damn hospital until I could get in.
And Noah. This young kid who has fought his way to the top with no support, just his own hard work. I should never have betrayed him either. It’s not who I am.
I suddenly snap back to the track, and as I approach turn twelve I realize I’m coming in too fast, my rear tires losing grip.
I skid into the Haas, which has been threatening to overtake for the past lap, clip the front, then spin off the track, the gravel violently shaking the chassis as I struggle to regain control.
Stavros. I gasp as I’m transported back to that race, back to the thunderous clap as our cars clipped each other and Stavros was tossed into the air, landing upside down and skidding into the wall. Then came the flames.
“Matt, pull back!” Archie shouts, but it’s too late. I veer onto the track, rejoining the race with several cars now ahead of me.
“We can still salvage this,” he says, trying to keep me focused.
“I clipped my wing,” I say.
“We’re checking.”
I grit my teeth, pushing hard to make up for lost time. The disappointment stings, but I don’t have time to dwell.
“Come on, Matt! Eyes forward, let’s claw back some places,” Archie urges.
But it’s no use. My brain is just too jumbled.
The despair and hopelessness I felt before I came to Arden, before I found my feet again, before I fell for Chloe is back with a vengeance.
My heart not on the track, but off it, somewhere, feeling bruised.
A little bit more damaged, just as I was starting to heal.
As I cross the line, having dropped five places and finishing in eighteenth, I drop my head into my hands.
“It’s understandable,” Archie says in my ears.
“I’m finished,” I say, but the radio is off. I talk to no one. I do the postrace checks, and I hide away until I can safely escape from everyone and everything.
I know just what I have to do.
The small villa that Stavros has been recuperating in the past couple of weeks sits on the edge of a bay in Cephalonia, a small island off the coast of Greece. I can imagine him a lot happier here than that rehabilitation place in the hills near Geneva.
I stand at the entrance to the villa, the cab still running, and look up through the iron gates toward the white-plastered estate with its wide balconies and stone walls covered in pink climbing flowers. This is it. I hand my cabdriver a hundred euros as I ask him to wait.
“I’ll wait as long as you need,” he says, folding the bills and shoving them into his shirt pocket.
My phone has been buzzing all morning.
Archie.
Then Chloe.
Then Barry.
I message Archie quickly.
Tell everyone I’ll see them in Vegas
Each step up the driveway I get more nervous, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach as I imagine Stavros’s face when he sees me.
I’ve already made a deal with myself—if I get to see him and he tells me to leave, then I will walk away.
The heat is almost unbearable; the trees on either side of the stone path seem to be buckling in the parched air.
I see a shiny black SUV with dark glass windows under a tree, and a second farther along poking out of the garage. He’s not alone, not that I ever imagined he would be.
I reach the wood-slat door and knock.
Here we go.
But there is no answer.
I step back, trying to see up to the balcony above, but all I can see from down here are the railings. I pull out my phone and a hit the call button.
Come on, Stavros, pick up.
After a few rings, I pull the phone away from my ear, about to hang up, when I hear that unmistakable Apple ringtone, faintly coming from somewhere nearby. I look up, craning my neck. Yes, it’s coming from that balcony.
“Stavros!” I call out.
Nothing. The phone rings out.
“Stavros!” I say again.
And that’s when I hear the splash of water and the sound of a body heaving itself out of a pool. “Well, well, well,” I hear above me.
I’d know that voice anywhere.
“Stavros?” I call out again, scanning the railing. Surely he can’t ignore me now.
I almost jump backward when I see his face leaning over the railing. His black hair cropped short, the scar visible along his skull, though the hair will cover that soon. That was a surface wound; it’s the injuries to his arms that I worry about seeing.
His face is blank as he stares down at me. “You finally came, motherfucker,” he says at last, in his thick Greek accent.
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” I say.
“You’ve got no balls.”
“True.” Stavros has always been good at calling me on my bullshit.
“Get the fuck up here, then,” he says, nodding to the trellises nailed to the side wall, covered in climbing vines. He disappears behind the railing. “Hurry the hell up, Romeo.”
I glance back down at the waiting cab, and then put my hand on the first beam and climb up.
It’s hot work, and the heat of the wood burns my skin.
Once I get to the top, I pull myself over and find Stavros lying on a sun lounger, his eyes closed, his chest bare, and his red swim shorts barely covering the scar on his right thigh.
Close up, the burns are just visible on his forearms now, still red and angry, but healed.
Not as bad as I’ve imagined in my nightmares.
“I wondered when you would show up. The longer I waited, the more I hated you,” he says, opening a single eye and nodding to the sun lounger next to him. I do as I’m told, sweat pouring off my forehead and running down my back.
“Stavros,” I start, sitting forward. There’s so much I want to say, and I have no clue where to begin. “Dude. I’m so fucking sorry. I know it’s no excuse, but I tried to come and see you but your mum—”
“Stop,” he says, holding a hand up. “Just stop. Don’t put this on my mum. Jesus. That was one time. It’s been months.”
“I know. I’m a fucking coward. I thought if I kept my distance and messaged you . . .” My voice is tight, and I swear to fucking god my heart is beating harder than when I’m driving the straight at Silverstone.
“You don’t message someone to say I’m sorry I nearly killed you,” he deadpans. “You get off your ass and you come to the house.” He holds his hands out and I cringe. “At least you’re here now.”
“Stavros. I’m . . .” I don’t want to say sorry again. It falls so terribly short of how I feel.
His eyes dart to the floor and then back up to meet mine. “It’s probably better we waited to see each other anyway. I needed time to cool off and process,” he concedes. “I saw your text messages and they made me really fucking angry.”
I bunch my hands up in my lap, but I don’t take my eyes off my friend.
“Sorry. I know,” I say, chewing on my lip. “How ah . . . how are you doing?”
His smile is wry. “I’m better. But, ah . . . you sure you want to go there?”
I nod. Stavros looks surprised, but he shrugs, looking back up to the sky, his eyes closing again. “I was in a lot of pain for the first days,” he says. “I was very confused after the operation. Twelve hours, the first one. Seven hours, the second. On it went.”
My heart squeezes as he talks, more quietly now, dropping in and out of Greek as he details the days after the crash. His eyes glaze a few times.
“But yeah, I’m recovering and doing better now. I had some realizations as I’ve been away from the track. Out of the F1 world.”
“But will you recover?” I ask, my eyes darting to his hands. “I mean, eventually?”
“Apart from the hands? Actually, maybe,” he says, crossing himself, and then looking back to me. “I still struggle with headaches. But the fog in my brain is . . . clearing.”
A woman emerges from the house behind us with a tray of lemonade and two pills for Stavros. Her long brown hair is wound in a bun on top of her head, a golden sheer caftan just hiding the bikini underneath. She’s not a nurse, that much I can guess.
“This is Céline,” he says, nodding toward her. “We met at the clinic.”
My eyes widen as I notice the burn scars up her left leg. “Bonjour,” she says, smiling wide. She follows my gaze and lifts her skirt a little. “Helicopter crash.”
Then she leans over and gently kisses Stavros on the mouth. “I’ll leave you two to catch up,” she says before walking back inside.
“Take one,” he says, nodding to the drinks.
I do, gratefully, downing almost all of it in one go.
“I had a little bet going with Céline,” Stavros says, stretching out his hands and cracking his knuckles. “I said you would come. She said you wouldn’t. And so, I win,” he says, grinning. “I know you don’t like to face your shit, so in a small way I’m proud of you.”
I can’t acknowledge the compliment. Not yet. I don’t deserve it. And so, instead, I shrug.
“Stavros, will you race again? I read you can’t,” I say, my voice gravelly as I pray to the gods it isn’t true.
“I think I could race again,” he says, tipping his head to the side. “But actually, I don’t want to.”
“What? Really?” I’m stunned by this. “Why? Is it . . . are you nervous about—”
“Matt, I’m older than you,” he says. “I was ready to move on a while ago.”
“You don’t mean that.”