Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
DANNY
I understand where Frankie’s coming from. All the same, I’m a little concerned that Nate’s tried to get hold of both of us, so I leave my phone on until I pull up in the parking lot of the go-kart track. For a second, I think about calling him, but that would feel like betraying my promise to Frankie. So, I double check that there’s no message and switch off my phone.
The go-kart track is indoors, a twisting circuit with enough challenge for experienced drivers but not so hard that amateurs can’t enjoy it. I scan their promo blurb – hot dang, the karts go up to forty-five miles per hour. I book a race slot for me and Frankie, and a practice one for me, and get handed a helmet and given a place to wait until it’s my turn. These karts look like a cross between a racing pedal car and a hovercraft. The drivers out on the track right now are a family group that resemble mine but are in no way as competitive. That sister just let her brother pass without weaving slowly in front of him to make him insane. Incredible.
I catch a whiff of Old Spice before I see her. Frankie sits down beside me.
“You’re early,” I say. “I’ve got a practice lap coming up in five minutes.”
“That’s why I’m early,” she says, with a smile. “I’m going to study your style. Take notes.”
I smile, indulgently. This will be pickleball revenge. She will eat my dust.
I get the signal that it’s my turn. Kiss Frankie before I pull on my helmet. Strapped into the kart, I await the green light and then scorch it until my fifteen minutes is up. I hop out, expecting a round of applause, but the track staff aren’t paid enough to care, so I’ll have to settle for unbridled awe from Frankie…
…who says, “Not bad. Your line was off on a couple of corners.”
“Excuse me? My line was perfect.”
“Uh huh,” is her maddening reply.
In my mind, I hear Ava taunting me with her “sore loser” chant. I’m going to get us some soda and take some calming breaths while I’m at it.
Soon enough, it’s our turn. Frankie looks cute in a helmet. We get the safety briefing, then we’re strapped in and ready to go. We coast to the start and wait for the green light. And we’re off!
Goddamn it, she’s ahead! How is that even possible? Did she bribe someone to give her the fastest kart? I put my foot to the floor and start gaining ground. Next corner she goes wide, I’m undertaking.
I sit on her tail the whole goddamn way. Cannot get past. She zips from side to side like a speed skater and corners like a pro. Our fifteen minutes are up. I … have lost.
This race. I’ve lost this race. No way she will beat me in the next. Which means I can be gracious in defeat.
“Nice work,” I say, and can’t help adding, “Almost like you’ve done this before.”
“Not go-karting,” says Frankie. “But before the Karmann Ghia, I owned a Nissan Skyline R33 and used to take it to the track for hot laps on a Friday night.”
I stare at her for a good half minute. “Why am I only hearing about this now?”
“Because we’ve been too busy having sex to talk about our past lives in any detail?”
“What model R33?” So help me, I’m a car salesman.
“1994 GTS25 Type S,” she replies. “Could never even hope to afford a GT-R.”
“You’re going to win the next race too, aren’t you?” I say.
She wins the next race. I’m never go-karting with her again.
“Pizza and beer?” she says, after we’ve handed back our helmets.
“Sure,” I say, sourly. “Why not? I can drown my sorrows.”
Frankie pats me on the arm. “Cheer up. I most definitely cannot sing, so your time will come.”
“When you say you can’t sing,” I ask, as we walk to our cars. “Does that mean you can’t hold a tune at all, or that you narrowly missed out on a place at the world’s top opera conservatory? You can see what I might want to check.”
“Guess you’ll find out tonight,” says Frankie, with a grin.
The craft beer brewery does pizza – artisan, of course. Frankie’s booked us a tasting for two thirty, so we’ve got time to sit outside, relax and enjoy the sun, or in my case, lick my wounds. I have to admit, I did not expect to lose and it smarts more than it should. I’m not a toddler in the playground; I’m a grown man. It occurs to me that I’m over-sensitive to failure the same way I am to rejection because to me, failing reminds me of all the times I’ve faced Dad’s disapproval. His disappointment that I’d fallen short, yet again. Everyone who beats me at anything becomes an avatar for my father, which isn’t fair on them – or me. I don’t need to keep carrying that psychological burden, but it’s a hard one to shift.
By the time we’re ushered to the tasting, I’ve already had three beers and am pretty buzzed. The bearded guy with the tattoo sleeve presents us each with a long wooden board with round indents along it for the sampler glasses. For each beer he pours, he talks about bouquet, and color, and clarity, and mouth feel, and hoppiness, and whether it’s sweet-toasty-nutty-grassy-citrusy-floral until my head is spinning. Though that might be the alcohol. Frankie listens attentively, holds each glass up to the light, and smells and tastes with the utmost care and seriousness. I’m just happy to drink and watch her work. There’s not going to be a quiz at the end, so why worry?
“What’s your favorite so far?” asks the brewer.
Okay, so a short quiz.
“This one.” I raise the glass I’m currently holding. “It’s very … drinkable.”
Frankie’s laughing at me. “This has gone right over your head, hasn’t it?”
And, indeed, to it. I am officially tanked.
Frankie rolls her eyes affectionately, and begins a short, intense conversation with the brewer. I understand not one word, but it results in Frankie being given a card for a brewing supplies store, so guess it was also about beer. She thanks the guy, takes my arm in quite a firm grip and leads me away.
“I hope they’ll be okay with you leaving your car here,” she says. “Because you’re in no condition to drive.”
This is undeniably true. “We can swing back tomorrow and pick it up.”
“Do you want to head into Martinburg now?” says Frankie. “Or find a hay barn where you can sleep it off?”
I draw her into my arms to kiss her, because as we all know, there’s nothing more appealing than a drunken fumble. Surprisingly, she tolerates my advances and we neck a little in the brewery parking lot before she pushes me away.
“Take a nap in the car,” she says. “Get your second wind. We have singing to do.”
“Singing!” I launch into “Sweet Child o’ Mine”. People are staring. Let them.
“Get in the car!” Frankie steers me into the passenger seat. “And stay there! I need to pee. I’ll be back soon. Don’t move!”
I have no intention of moving. But as I wait, the worry that’s been grumbling away since this morning penetrates my beer-fog to nag in earnest. I really should make sure that Nate’s okay. My phone’s in my pocket. No sign of Frankie so I pull it out and switch it back on. Check my messages. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
“What?” Frankie’s back and she’s seen my face.
“Shelby’s in hospital,” I tell her. “They might have to do an emergency cesarean.”
Frankie grabs her own phone out of her bag and boots it up. Goes very still.
“Karaoke is on hold,” she says. “We’re driving straight to Martinburg General.”
I’ve got half an hour to sober up.