Chapter 31
Alyssia
“What’s this?” I ask Travis, a week later, as he holds the rental car door open for me.
We’ve just driven from London out to Silverstone. A huge, mostly glass building looms over the car, casting a shadow over us.
My entire body stiffens as I stop walking.
“Why are we here?”
“This place showcases the history of my sport.”
I begin shaking my head before he’s completed his answer. Images of cars flying down racetracks flash through my mind but are soon replaced by bent metal, broken glass, and shattered bodies.
I start to raise my hand to my shoulder, to massage the tingling that starts there, but Travis’ hand takes mine, stopping me.
“Why would you bring me here?” I try to pull my hand away, but Travis tightens his hold. “I don’t need to learn more about motor racing.”
Despite the fear and mounting anger washing over me, my heart strings tug at the sadness that invades Travis’ eyes as soon as I say this.
I know it’s completely unfair, and even hurtful, to willfully reject someone else’s passion.
Especially when that someone is the man you’re falling in love with, who also happens to be the father of the baby you’re carrying.
My breathing shallows as the different realities of my life begin to collide.
“Alyssia, listen to me.” Travis’ voice is calm, steady, but holds a raw emotion that pulls my gaze back up to his. “I brought you here to show you that my driving isn’t nearly as dangerous as you think it is.”
I part my lips to ask how he would know but he’s quicker than I am.
“What happened to you and your parents was the result of some low lives who had no respect or consideration for other people. Their recklessness stole from you—all of you, but that’s not Formula 1.”
He squeezes my hand.
“You know … about the accident?” I’ve never gone into full details about the accident with him.
“I found some articles and …” he drops his gaze to my shoulder, even though it’s covered by the short sleeves of my sundress, “pieced it together.”
I glance away, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“The people who pioneered and work in Formula 1 have spent millions of dollars, exercised enormous brain power, and gathered years of science and technological innovation to make this sport as safe as possible. Let me show it to you.”
The fear still courses through me, but it’s the pleading in his voice that finds me granting him a short nod.
We’re met at the door by our own person museum guide, Scott.
I do my best to stay out of my own head and focus on the information being shared.
Sometime between the part where Scott shares that the sport of Formula 1 was pioneered by former World War II veterans, and the displays of what look like oversized tin cans (which were some of the first F1 cars), I force myself to look at this from the angle of market research.
Instead of personalizing or imagining Travis behind the wheel of these very unsafe cars with nothing for a helmet save for what’s tantamount to a leather cap, I hone in on the numbers and facts that Scott shares. The developments from one year to the next of the sports equipment.
Doing my best to look at it from an analytical or depersonalized point of views, makes it easier to bear.
“You’re in luck,” Scott says, suddenly even more animated. “We just opened up our Severino Ferreira exhibit this week.”
That last name sounds familiar. I try to place it.
“He was one of the greats,” Scott goes on. “What he accomplished in this sport, both on the track and off is nothing short of gold. I highly recommend checking it out,” Scott says to me, then looks over at Travis.
“You probably know everything about Severino though, given that he’s an Amato god!” His excitement is almost palpable. “It’s a shame you can’t speak to him directly about his time at Amato because, you know he—”
“We’re not here for the exhibit,” Travis says more tersely than I would’ve expected. “Why don’t you show us the most important safety feature to the car?” He suggests in a way that makes it clear that it’s absolutely not a suggestion.
Scott walks us over to a section of the first floor of the museum, separated from the rest.
“In here we have the most modern and dramatic safety installations to the modern F1 car,” Scott tells us, placing a hand on the curved titanium bar that extends up from the front of the car and around the top of the driver’s seat, anchoring to the back.
“The halo,” Scott continues. “It protects drivers from flying debris in the event of a crash. Which is how it’s gotten its reputation as one of the most advanced safety features in the sport in the past seventy-five years.”
Scott pauses, looking over the halo on the car beside him with admiration.
“Lastly,” Scott continues, “as I like to say, the halo is to the modern F1 car what the HANS is to the modern driver’s safety equipment.”
“HANS? What is that?” I ask Travis instead of Scott.
Before explaining, Travis thanks Scott for the tour. A beat later, it’s just Travis and me as we approach a helmet in a glass case surrounded by a big, metal, strappy thing.
“This is what I wear while driving,” he says. He explains that the HANS device attaches to the helmet and extends around the neck and shoulders to support a racer in the event of an accident.
“It’s safer than airbags,” he finishes.
I snort, unable to stop my mind from going back to the fact that the airbags in my parents’ car did absolutely nothing to save them. Some accidents are just too damn treacherous to survive.
Even with safety features.
I place my hand on my stomach at the same time the baby starts moving in my belly. The thought of losing Travis in a race terrifies me almost as much as the thought of this child being without its father.
“And you wear these for every race, right?” I ask stupidly.
“Along with the fire-resistant suit and gloves. No part of my body is left unprotected.”
I nod, somewhat assured.
“Why did you want me to see this?” I ask, waving my hand in the general direction of the displays.
His hands move to my waist as he comes to stand in front of me.
“Because I know what I do for a living frightens you. It shouldn’t.”
“It shouldn’t?” I ask, sarcasm lacing my voice.
He takes it in stride, shaking his head. “To be honest, we’re the safest drivers on any road. We’re not the careless road racers who ruin families and cost people their lives in a senseless, street drag race.”
My heart kicks against my ribs. I think about all of the changes and innovations that have gone into the sport over the years. I’m able to breathe a little easier when I think about all of the safety features I’ve learned about today.
When I place my hand on my belly, there’s another kick that makes me smile. Travis’ hand covers mine, warming me from the inside out. The baby starts moving more.
“Trust me to take care of you, Alyssia,” he suddenly says.
Our eyes meet, and I want to fall into them. I want to trust that everything will be okay if I give into this inner yearning to let myself go and trust that it’ll turn out for the better. That my entire world won’t be pulled from underneath me.
The corners of my lips tip upward into a small smile as Travis cups my face. He pulls a tiny moan from me as he brushes his lips across mine. Once … twice … three times leaves me breathless.
“I have a favor to ask,” he says, pulling back slightly.
“Now you want to ask me for favors?” I tease.
My heart lurches at the curling up of that perfect bow mouth.
“Come to my Monaco race,” he says. “Please?”
“I’ll be there,” I say as if he should know it.
He shakes his head. “I mean, not just for your work. For me. I want you at the race for me.”
I chew on my bottom lip. This isn’t the first time he’s asked. And while I will be in attendance at some of the events for work, I still held out on whether or not I would attend the actual race. Being present for the qualifying rounds would already test me.
“If you do me a favor,” I say.
“Anything.” His answer is so quick I barely get time to recall what my favor is.
“Show me to the gift shop we passed on the way in.”
He blinks, and I almost laugh at how adorable he appears in his confusion.
“And then I’m craving some fish and chips.”
He’s so damn handsome when he smiles down at me, my face still in between his hands that I almost groan.
“Anything for you.”