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somejazzinthemorning · 1 year

Text

tightrope. 03

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Original Female Character Warnings: Language Word Count: 7.241 Previous chapter: 02.

Drowning myself in work is my go-to coping mechanism for more than half of my problems.

I'll either resort to racing or tracing brand strategies in an attempt to avoid having to face whatever problem throws my way and, that night, being 11 pm on a Wednesday, my laptop and the small whiteboard on my desk became my saving grace.

Despite the burning eyes and my aching back, after hours sat at my desk, my mind was still racing, high on whatever feelings the brush of his lips had evoked in my body. I fell asleep to the memory of his eyes and the velvet lips.

There was no way to escape it. We were already falling.

I woke up late, the next day.

My phone had a full wall of notifications ready to present me. A single text in the middle of the dozens of work-related emails, most of them answers to the ones I’d written during the night and scheduled to be sent in the early hours of the work day. I only realised I was smiling, probably high on my own expectations, when I felt my smile drop, after seeing who sent the text. Amanda. Not him.

“those updates on the project at 3 am??? r u okay?”

“sorry! i remembered to schedule the emails, but forgot about the notes on the project.” "got some good work done, tho”

"need to take a moment to reread all of your incoherent notes” "all that rambling is… wow” "BUUUUUT come to the office” "the things from the berlin store just arrived, you will love them”

"can’t make it today” "send pics!”

"come tomorrow, then! ill get churros for breakfast”

My phone went back to the nightstand and I pulled up the comforter, wrapping it around myself in an attempt to find some security and calm of mind. I peered out from under the comforter, staring at the dark room, only lightened by some streaks of light created from a gap in the blinds. I was still tired from the night, and my mind scrambled from everything we had shared.

Eventually, I left the bed. My mom was downstairs, and a copy of Shadow of the Wind rested on the kitchen counter while she cooked lunch. Frank Sinatra played on the old record player in the living room and the music continued to stretch around the house as we ate together. Luckily, her birthday party was keeping her busy; busy enough that she didn't remember to ask me about the dinner from last night.

Truth be told: I'm a terrible liar. I would never be able to escape her questions.

At the end of the day, I met Rocco for a workout, in a nearby gym. He was waiting for me, leaning against the reception counter, teal Puma t-shirt paired with an amused smirk; I knew he was more than ready to put me through my paces. And I was right. It only took me a couple of exercises to lay on the floor, panting and sweating."Have you thought about what you're doing next season?" I looked up, in the direction of the voice. Rocco was standing in front of me, holding my water bottle.

I sat up straight and extended my hand to grab it. "Not yet," the water was cold and refreshing. Just what I needed. "Maybe a third year in the Challenge and," I paused to breathe. "You know, the reserve seat. Not ideal, but yeah."

He frowned, sitting down on one of the plyo boxes near me. "But yeah?"

"Yeah. Works." I answered, laying back down on the green turf. The small fake grass ticklish on my legs and arms. "Not much, but it's racing."

"I think I'll pretend you didn't say that."

"Why? It's just how it is."

He cleared his throat, the deep sound making me open my eyes and stare at him again. "Up," he commanded, refusing to help me get up. I brought the hand I'd just held up to the floor, to help me get up.

"I thought we were done," I said. He didn't even need to say anything to make me understand that we were, in fact, not done. "Are you mad?"

“Annoyed,” he turned back to me. “What the heck was that answer? Of course, a third year in the Challenge and a reserve seat in WEC are not ideal. I was hoping for a real answer, not some… whatever that was.”

“It’s the reality,” I shrugged. Instead of turning back and going back to do whatever he was about to do, he just kept looking at me. Not the conversation I was hoping for today.

“You had a plan. What happened?” He asked.

“Nothing happened. I had a plan. And it’s going as it’s possible.”

"Excuses, Eva," Rocco exclaimed. He stepped forward and looked me in the eye. "You have a plan. You know what you want. And you have the talent."

“Congrats, you just solved gender inequality.” I gave him an ironic thumbs up, my mind still scrambled from the efforts of the workout and the encounter from last night. This kind of conversation was not what I wanted.

“You’re more than capable of getting a decent seat next year.”

“As we know,” I wiggled my finger between both of us, “It’s a tough path. Being capable won’t get me a seat. ”

“Locking yourself in an office keeping track of TikTok trends will?” I sent him a look. He held up his hands in defence. “You’re making excuses. There are other drivers fighting for the same things as you are and they are not taking no for an answer.”

“Neither am I.”

"Come on," he chortled, eying me carefully. I could tell that he wanted the best for me, but I was not really in the mood to discuss this at the moment. "When was the last time you actually planned something for yourself, and not just some new fashion designer or boujie vegan chef?"

I felt a little bit of annoyance creeping its way up my spine. I had been pushing myself so hard for the last few months, and I was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed with all the pressure.

“Can we focus on the races I have left to win?” I asked, my voice taking on an exasperated tone. “We can talk about this after I win this championship?”

“Sure.” He bent down to grab a 15 kg power bag from the floor and dropped it off at my feet. "This wasn't planned, but that self-pity is annoying me."

“A punishment?" I took my hands to my hips, a light chortle abandoning my lips. "Burpees and never-ending lounges? That's what you think I need right now?"

"No, no burpees," he said, his grin widening. "But maybe a few extra lounges wouldn't hurt." He was clearly enjoying this. I rolled my eyes and glanced down at the power bag in front of me.

“It was not—”

He cleared his throat, cutting me off, and I went silent. Then, looking at him, I saw that he was grinning at me once again, content. Yeah, it was self-pity. Yeah, the future is scary, especially when you’re a 25-year-old woman in motorsports and your career seems to be stuck.

I took a deep breath and bent over to pick up the bag, the cold weight of it dragging my body down to the ground. Rocco took a few steps back and then motioned me with his head to start.

"Andiamo," he said. “20 steps back and forth. Three series.”

So I did. I started lounging with the bag, back and forth across the green patch of turf on that side of the gym, trying to keep a steady pace. With each step, the pressure of the bag weighed me down. I kept going, pushing forward and gritting my teeth against the pain. When I finally reached the twentieth step, I dropped the bag and breathed out, my body aching from the effort.

By the end of the third series, I had pushed my body to its very limits and back. I sunk down onto the cool grass beneath me, feeling the relief of the softness beneath me—my muscles aching and my body dripping with sweat, my hair matted to my neck and temples.

Rocco sat near me, guiding me through a couple of moves, helping me to loosen my tight muscles and stretch out my body. Despite the big (and somewhat threatening) muscles he had a gentle touch.

“What’s on your mind?”

"Hm?" I frowned, my eyebrows furrowing together as I closed my eyes, feeling his hand pressing down on my thigh, pushing it firmly against the hard floor. I could feel the pain radiating through my body, but I tried to focus on the sensation of his grip.

“You always complain this hurts,” he said. I opened one eye. Now, I could feel the pressure from his grip. Probably something shifted on my face because he instantly asked, “Now it hurts?”

"It hurt before, I was just distracted." I shook my head, closing my eyes again and focusing on the sensation of his grip. “I’m free to feel like shit when things go badly." I let out.

“Things are not going badly,” he sighed, leaving my leg and switching to the other. “You’re simply letting yourself fall behind.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, my head falling back against the floor. I stayed there for a few moments, my heart pounding against my chest and my thoughts racing a million miles per hour. When I finally opened my eyes again, I looked up at Rocco, this time because I felt my thigh burning with discomfort, he was still looking at me, waiting for an answer.

"Too much." I glanced below while patting his arm. He raised an eyebrow, implying more pressure. "Ei!" I scrunched my nose. He just arched a brow. Sadistic fucker. “What? Are you going to hurt me until I hold someone at gunpoint and ask for a seat?”

“You talk like you don’t have good offers, Eva.”

“What is a good offer? Driving against 19-year-old boys in Formula 3? It’s humiliating.”

“W Series?” He suggested.

“I want to race with men and show people I can win against them.” I sat down. Rocco took his hands from my legs. My muscles tingled with the same intensity my thoughts did. “I like the Challenge because I’m showing them I can do it. But the team does not have a budget to race in other series. And I can’t be a reserve forever. So I can do another year and hope things change.”

“See? You’re choosing to fall behind.” He took a deep breath, understanding my frustration. "You can always look for sponsorship," he said, his eyes focused on the floor. "You have the talent, the connections—"

“I spent my teenage years sending letters and desperately trying to talk to people. You saw how that went.”

“You have results to show them, now. In two weeks you’ll have a championship.” I dragged my hands over my face. Instant regret. Both my hands and face were tingling with the same intensity my thoughts did. “W Series will give you exposure. Will give you points. You need points..”

“Why are you so interested now?” I arched an eyebrow, feeling a bit suspicious. “The year is long. Anything can happen. A lot can change.”

“I just don’t see you planning ahead.” He deadpanned, his expression unreadable. “What if you can’t do another season of the Challenge? Will you be content with just being a reserve in WEC?”

“Why so many ifs?” I asked, still feeling a bit apprehensive.

“Motorsports are unpredictable,” he replied, his voice steady and sure. “I’ve been around long enough to know that. And I’m your coach, not just a trainer. It’s kinda my responsibility to do this.”

“Nah, I’m not having it.” I paused, still not entirely convinced. “Do you know something I don’t?”

Rocco just shook his head. The dark strands of his hair moved in unison. “Eva—” He shrugged. I could see the wheels turning in his mind. Whatever he was about to say, it seemed like it wasn't completely true. "One," he continued; his tone shifting. "I don't want to be left without a job when you get bored of racing." I threw my towel at him, though I knew he was only joking. Unfortunately, he dodged it. "Two," he continued, "you're racing like a pro. You should race with the pros."

At least, in one thing he was right. I was racing like a pro.

On the other hand, I was not acting like one.

My team and my dad, the main sponsor, were the only support I had. Despite having other offers, none met our expectations. I had been a third, fourth, or fifth driver for too long. I had spent too much time in the garage, running simulations, and taking part in test sessions. Years of it. Each of these experiences had demoralized me.

Racing in the Challenge, learning with my team, taking time to understand the car and driving it to a podium made sense to me. Standing in the garage and hoping for someone to get food poisoning or COVID was not only morally wrong but also quite dull.

“Did you make this whole drama when Rio told you he wanted to stop racing and just go to college and become an engineer?” I asked, getting up from the floor and picking up my towel, still lying on the ground.

“It was worse actually,” my trainer said, following me. “I think I almost killed him when he told me.”

“We make quite the pair, don’t we?”

He smiled and nodded. “Yes, you do. Your poor father has his hands full with you two.” We stopped walking when we reached the locker room. “Go have a shower and get some rest.”

The second I reached my locker and opened the wooden door, I reached for my phone, looking for a message that hadn't arrived. Pathetic. A part of me considered taking the initiative and being the one to call or text him but, to be honest, what was left for me to say?

I had already told him everything by asking him not to kiss me and I might have told him even more by refusing to let go of him.

The office smelled of churros, so I knew Amanda was around. Either that or someone else had the same idea as her.

Familiar faces smiled back at me as I crossed the corridors and the work areas until I finally reached the common area and took one of the available seats. Since I had chosen to work remotely, and only visited the office casually for occasional meetings or when I needed a place where I could focus, I wasn't given an office.

The room was filled with the buzz of people chatting and the occasional laughter, making me feel a bit out of place. I knew most of them (read: I knew their names and which projects were under their purview), but rarely talked to any of them. Amanda, one of my friends from college, and the one who had introduced me to this agency was the only one I regularly talked with.

I sat down in my chair and pulled my laptop out of my bag. After talking with Rocco yesterday, I decided to take action on my career and spent last night looking at emails and reading my dad's notes on the sides of those he considered important enough to print. So, when I opened my laptop, my screen showed me my Notion board, which honestly felt like a showcase of my own failures. Not the first thing I wanted to see that morning.

A knock on the glass divider of the office made me lift my head up and find Amanda on the other side of it. A beautiful purple jumper highlighted her beautiful curves; her hair was pulled up in a ponytail. In her hands, a white box.

I waved at her.

“Vamos,” she motioned with her head. “Before anyone tries to steal these from me.”

I smiled and grabbed my laptop, zipping it up before getting up and walking towards her. “You know I have an important weekend ahead, right?”

She laughed, opening the box. “A churro won't weigh you down, don't worry.”

I took one of them and walked near her to the cafeteria. The morning light was soft, and the day was not too warm. Ideal to sit on the balcony and talk for a while. So, that's what we did. I grabbed coffee for both, while she walked outside.

The sunshine on my skin was just a slight warmth as I leaned on my chair, and the smooth breeze of the morning cooled off my skin. Traffic sounds in the background, the ruffle of chairs and the occasional bark of one of the dogs playing on the balcony of the start-up that shares the building with us.

While having a sip of her coffee, I noticed Amanda's eyes widening, and I could practically see the bell ringing in her mind. Instantly, my brows were drawn together. Brace yourself, Eva.

"So, I heard on Twitter dot com…" I rolled my eyes at the last part, and despite provoking a small chuckle from her, she didn't stop talking and her gaze still remained twinkling mischievously. "Carlos was in Mugello last weekend."

Oh, for fucks sake.

"If that's what Twitter says, it must be true."

"Yes. So," she paused. Her head tilted slightly, honestly looking like a pup who saw a threat in the distance. "Did you two talk?"

I shook my head; my fingers busy on the handle of my mug, desperately trying to seem unbothered by the question. "Nah, we didn't talk."

"You sure?" She asked, her eyebrows raised in suspicion.

"Yes, I'm sure," I said, my voice steady. "It's not like we're friends or anything."

"That's too bad," she murmured, a hint of disbelief in her voice. "It's not like Carlos and your brother are still like, the best of friends and maybe— maybe he went there to visit him and you end up talking?"

I sighed. "Stop it."“You're a terrible liar, Eva.” Amanda said bluntly, her gaze intense.

“Amanda,” I said, my voice stern and my eyes piercing. "Stop it."

“So, you talked.” Amanda gave me a knowing look. "I knew it. I saw those tweets and I realised we had barely talked this week, and that only happens when you're too busy overthinking. And then boom, I woke up to dozens of notes made at 2 am? You always go to bed early." She crossed her arms, her gaze still intense. "Come on, just tell me what happened. If it’s not him, it’s anything else. That worries me too. I'm here for you, no judgement."

I sighed. "Fine," I said, setting my mug down and leaning back on the chair. "We talked. A lot. We actually had dinner."

Amanda's gaze softened, but then she frowned again. “Dinner? The three of you?”

“The two of us.”

"Just the two of you?" Amanda's eyes widened in surprise, lips smiling brightly. I nodded to her question. "What did you talk about?"

A part of me wanted to end it there. The other part of me needed some guidance. And Amanda was a friend, she always had good advice. On the downside, she loved to gossip. But we were friends. Guidance. But gossip.

I shrugged. “Just normal things. Racing.”

“Okaaaay, that’s good.” At this point, her lips were curving up like she was the one having dinner with him. I couldn’t decide if her reaction annoyed me or made me happy. "So, what now? Are you going to keep in contact with him?"

I shook my head. "I don't think the dinner changed anything.” Liar.

“Eva,” she propped her elbows on the table. “You’re a terrible liar. Spit it out. What happened? If you don’t want to talk about it, tell me that. Just don’t lie.”

Talking about it would make a big deal. A bigger deal, actually. I dragged my hands over my face, tired and confused. Thinking about it was challenging enough and I truly didn't want to transform all my confusion and emotions into words. Amanda, on the other hand, couldn't hide the fact that she wanted the truth, her gaze so strong it almost made me melt over the iron (and obnoxiously red) chair I was sitting on.

So I told her. Every single detail. From the glorious vision of him under the bright lights of my garage, which for a second made me feel like I was living in an alternate world, through the call at dawn, to his gauze under the beautiful sunset glow. His warm, velvety lips brushing against mine. I told her about the “I think I might have loved you, too”, and the way that even in my dreams I couldn’t seem to forget his scent when he hugged me goodbye.

I felt so exposed, so vulnerable, as I spilled my heart out onto that small table, and when I finished all I could hear was the sound of her sigh. A ridiculous rom-com kind of sigh.

“I just feel like we messed it up because of pure desperation,” I said, crossing one leg over the other and looking around. “He messed it up. I think we just missed each other so much we… I don’t know. Got confused on the feelings?”

“He messed up?”

“I didn’t kiss him back. I just asked him to please, don’t.” It was more ridiculous saying it out loud now than when I recalled the moment in my mind.

“You’re even stupider than I thought,” was her answer. I arched my brow. “The guy cooked for you, at his place, told you he “thinks he loved you too” and tries to kiss you and now you’re mad because he didn’t text you?” She paused. “What the hell will he say? Of course, he won’t text you. What would you say to someone after being denied a kiss? Text him yourself.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Why not? I asked myself the same question. Because I can’t trust him to stay. Better, because I can’t trust him to not leave. “Don’t be stubborn, come on. Just by looking at you, I know you’re dying to get that kiss.”

“Can’t we go back inside and talk about work?”

“Oh, no, missy.” She shook her head. “Those AB tests can wait. I want to talk about you and how you’re so dumb you might lose the chance of your life.”

“You’re exaggerating. As always.”

“Eva.” She was stern, her eyes burning on me. “He was your best friend. At least try to mend that friendship. Even if you don’t want anything else. Whatever the reason.”

I sighed, bowing my head in defeat. Amanda had a way of making me see sense, even when I didn't want to. "And if I can’t see him as a friend but still can’t give a step in the other direction?”

“Then, you give it time. Just don’t give it too much space.” She got up from her chair. Mug on one hand. The empty white box on the other. “Remember how that worked up last time.”

Fact one about Amanda: she was probably the most curious person I knew. Any arguments in the office, celebrity rumours or gossip of literally any kind she knew by heart, down to the last detail. And while that was remotely irritating, especially at exhausting times, like during Amber and Johnny’s trial, or when (especially when) the news broke about Pique and Shakira's divorce, it could also be a blessing. At least from my point of view. Perhaps all the stories contributed to her having a broader view of relationships and, as a result, being so good at giving advice. Fact two: there was no one more insistent than her, so, evidently, she couldn’t leave the office without reminding me to text him.

It was 5 pm, and I was utterly absorbed in the presentation for the new restaurant. I was head down, consumed by the details of culinary and marketing analytics, and, to tell the truth, my mind was so focused on this project that I couldn't really think of anything else.

Amanda was getting ready to leave. Jacquemus purse over her shoulder and a strong pink lipstick on the place where a less saturated one had been during the day.

“You stay?” She asked me.

“Aham,” I briefly made my eyes leave the screen to look at her. “I need to finish this. Next week I’ll be too busy.”

“You leaving for Italy on Monday?”

“Tuesday,” I corrected her, my eyes going back down to the laptop. “Don’t want to leave this to the last minute.”

“Okay. I’ll try to have a look at it before you leave. Also,” my eyes went up again. “Send the man a good luck text.”

I sighed, rolling my eyes at her. "He doesn't need my luck text.”

Amanda nodded, her eyes still twinkling mischievously. "Okay, send him a whatever text, then. An emoji. Like his Instagram story.”

“I’m afraid liking his story won’t work.” I leaned back on her office chair, which I had taken in the middle of the day when she needed to leave for a meeting and left me to use her small office.

“Text him, then. Anything. I wouldn’t let Carlos Sainz escape, but you do you, babes,” she shrugged, turning her back to me to walk to the door.“Enjoy the weekend. Besos!”

“Bye!”

I didn’t text him. Of course. In the same way, she was insistent, I was stubborn.

Actually, let me rephrase it.

I didn’t text him then.

Mid-afternoon, Rio had called inviting me to dinner, and when I asked about the kids, he told me he had booked a nanny, so they would stay home. It was either business or pleasure. I didn't need to ask; as soon as he mentioned my dad was invited, I knew we'd be discussing business. And after Rocco's worries last night, I knew it was partly my business, too.

My nerves were on edge as I prepared to leave the office. They only worsened as I neared the restaurant - a way too fancy place for a Friday dinner with the family.

Crossing the sidewalk, my heels clacking on the cement, my head spinning from the long hours in front of my laptop, and the anxiety building in my chest, I looked inside. My dad was seated at the end of the table, with an empty seat to his right - the seat I was supposed to take. Marjorie was already waving at me. Smiling politely to the man standing at the door, I said, "They're waiting for me." He nodded and let me enter.

My eyes drifted to their table, and I allowed myself a few seconds to study the mood. They were laughing, but my palms were still sweating as I settled in for what would surely be an uncomfortable conversation.

"Sorry, traffic," I said, punctuating my apology with a kiss on each of my parents' cheeks. "Am I too late?"

"No, no," my dad said, his voice warm and comforting. "Your brother was about to tell me something, but you just distracted him. Go ahead, Fabrizio."

I turned to him, curious.

"I'm sure we can wait a bit more. Just... after the food," he said.

"Why are you so nervous?" Marjorie asked, her violet fingernails softly laying over his arm in a gentle caress. "It's something good," she said to me. "Don't worry."

"Are you pregnant again?" my mom asked.

"No! No, no!" my sister-in-law responded quickly, her voice almost echoing in the room. Even Rio seemed surprised by her rapid response. "It's Rio's news. Not mine."

“After the food, then,�� my father said.

“I hate it when I do that,” I muttered to my brother, grabbing the menu from the table and letting my eyes drift through the print. “You haven’t ordered yet, right?”

My dad shook his head. "We were waiting for you.”

I glanced at the menu one last time before setting it back down. My dad's hand called for a waiter and, after the young man left, the conversation resumed. As usual before any Grand Prix, the race weekend was the matter on the table and, that night specifically, Carlos' penalty was the urgent matter. Ferrari had the pace and Carlos had the skill, but as I sat there, hearing my brother and dad's input on how wise the choice had or hadn't been, my attention diverged to the DNF he had suffered in Austria, less than two weeks ago. Vivid images of the flames engulfing the car, the heartbreaking words on the radio, and the cheers that echoed through the crowd as his teammate stepped onto the top step filled my mind.

One feeling the glory, the other one consumed in ruin.

“Good luck out there this weekend.” "Don’t pull another Austria. That one was scary.”

Done. I’d texted him. For better or for worse, it was done. And I didn’t have time to put the phone back in the purse before it vibrated again in my hand.

“Thank you. I really need it.”

I checked the time.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I’m resting." "Listening to my teammate rant about food, but resting.”

“Why? Did you tell him about the cheese-less pasta you tried to feed me?” “If I expect Leclerc to teach you something is how to cook pasta."

"He’s a terrible cooker.” “I’m better learning it from you.”

"I’ll be sure to give you a lesson someday."

"I'll hold you to that."

"What are you smiling about?" Marjorie asked, my attention immediately being grabbed from my screen to the table.

"Nothing, sorry," I said quickly, tucking my phone back into my purse. "Amanda just texted me about the work I was finishing.”

"Ah, Eva, if you put that effort into racing…" he said, as the waiter came back with our food. I tried to ignore him, especially because there was no use fighting back his comment.

Even with the food on the table and the anticipation to find out about Rio’s news tugging on my chest, the conversation didn’t go further from Formula 1. My dad, a lifelong Italian Ferrari fan and a very biased Carlos supporter was ranting over the lack of professionalism he was sensing from the team and how the choices they repeatedly made ruined not only the drivers but the prestige of the team. Nothing new. Rio and I have been listening to the same tirade for a long couple of years and nothing seemed to change, even after the amazing start to the season the team had.

“I had my reservations at first, but you could be a nice fit for the team, actually”, my dad said, pointing at Rio, with the knife he was using to cut his steak. Rio looked confused at him, and then, at me. “Have they given you an answer?”

What?

For a moment, I felt like I’d fallen on a different table, a completely different conversation. My gaze shifted from one to the other, confused by my father’s question.

“Who’s they?” I asked. Marjorie was biting her lip; her violet fingertips on my brother’s arm, once again.

“Ferrari,” my father responded, clearly stepping over my brother’s feet. Rio seemed bothered; clenched jaw, restless fingers that Marjorie tried to calm by positioning hers over. “Are those the news?” He asked him.

Rio nodded, his jaw unclenching and his lips transforming to a slight grin. "Yep. They offered me a job." He looked around the table, his gaze caught mine for a second but quickly left again. “I need to let them know my decision until Monza.”

“You applied for a job at Ferrari?” I asked. Honestly, I was so confused I couldn’t piece all the things together. “We’re doing so good at the Challenge, you could have waited for just one m—”

“Eva.” My dad interrupted me. The strong stern voice pulled my attention. The authority value of his words over the sweet comforting voice of the beginning of the dinner. The mood had definitely shifted “Wait? You’re the one that’s always urging the team to aim for higher heights.”

"Exactly. The team won't do that without Rio."

"But your brother will. And so will you." I tried to interject but with no success. He continued before I even had the chance to talk. "You can't possibly think your brother would stay with the team knowing he could have this huge opportunity."

"I didn't know about any opportunity." I was replying to my father, but my eyes were directed to Rio. "What about the team? And the Challenge?" I inquired.

"In less than two weeks, the championship will be over. I have no doubts you will win it. You're just losing time there," my father's tone was bothering me, but the fact that he was still cutting his steak as he talked was really aggravating my temper.

Rio, on the other hand, didn't react. His expression didn't even shift. He remained silent, eyes shifting between mine and dad's face. In his silence, though, he was telling me much more than he thought.

"This is not a formality," I said to my father. "Can you please look at me while you talk about our future?"

Finally, he put down his cutlery and remained silent for a few seconds. Deep blue eyes looked up at me, cold and serious.

"There's no future for you if you're afraid to take a serious step," he said finally. "I won't let your brother get stuck in the Challenge when I know he can do so much more. I won't let you make him fall behind because of you."

"Because of me?"

"Why else would he stay at the Challenge?" I stayed silent, feeling my fake sense of confidence being stripped away with the weight of my dad's question. The answer that my conscience gave me was selfish and I refused to say it out loud. I was afraid of staying alone, rather, I was afraid to see Rio flying solo in the higher aims I ambitioned for me and not being able to carry along. Only if he waited, we could jump up together. "Why would he choose anything less than Formula One?"

"So, you have it decided, then?" I asked Rio. "How did that even happen?"

His tongue crept in between his lips, eyes wandering on my face, afraid to reach my eyes. It was making me nervous. Not just because he was about to leave me, but because he didn't tell me about it, prior. My dad knew about it. He even thought that I knew about it. And like a lightning bulb lighting up on my head: Rocco knew it, too.

"It was proposed to me. The job. At Silverstone, a few weeks ago." Even though Rio was stuttering, and his words barely constructed a sentence, piece by piece it all fell together. "Apparently, Carlos talked to someone about you. About the Challenge. And he mentioned me, my results..." he explained. "Carlos invited me there for the Grand Prix and surprised me with an interview."

Why didn't it surprise me? Carlos. The “right time”, of course.

"Your results? Why hide this from me?” I asked, looking around the table. “Clearly, everyone else knows.”

“I wanted to tell you, but didn’t get the chance to do it.”

“But what?” I asked, half defeated, half annoyed. Angry, even. There was so much going on inside me, I couldn’t think straight. “You just said you had the interview in Silverstone. Weeks ago. You had plenty of opportunities.”

“I knew you would snap and react like this,” Rio tried to justify himself.

“Snap? I’m not—” I paused and took a deep breath. At this point, I was seething with anger. “I’m asking questions. I’m not… snapping.”

“You should be happy for me,” I would if I didn’t feel betrayed. “I know you well enough to know that you would react… badly to the news. Especially if you knew Carlos was involved**.**”

Even though his name was blinking on my head, in bold red letters, I tried to set apart his involvement in this story. So, I carried on,

“And you’re just going to do it? Leave the team, the whole project and ditch us? Without even consulting me?”

He shrugged. “I’m consulting you now.”

“This is not a consultation, Rio. Please.” A pause. “This is you telling me what you’re going to do, without even considering my opinion or the team that’s behind your great results.”

“Go ahead.” He made a gesture with his hand. “What’s your opinion, then? You are the one that’s always telling me to aim higher. This is my dream. Always has been.”

“What? Formula One? I thought your dream was to drive in Formula One. Or was that before you noticed you’re a shitty driver? Enlighten me.”

“Eva, enough,” the deep voice cut me off.

I felt like I was going to burst. I wanted to scream, to cry, to express my anger somehow. But my dad's stern gaze kept me in my place. I felt completely helpless and unheard.

“You’re being ridiculous,” said Rio, cutting through the silence. “Childish, even. Ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful? I’m not the one leaving.”

“Why does leaving need to be bad?” The question settled in for a second. “Grow a bit, and maybe you’ll get some good opportunities too.”

“Sure, maybe then my friends will get me jobs, too. Is that what you mean?”

“Enough.” My dad's fist hit the table, loud enough to silence us, but not to the point of attracting too much attention.

My gaze lingered on his clenched fist on the table. I nodded, forcing myself not to say anything else. I placed my napkin on the table and got up, making sure my chair wouldn’t make any noise when pushed back. Before turning around, I paused briefly, my gaze now resting on my brother. “Good luck with your new job.”

It didn't surprise me when I saw Carlos fly through the track the next day, setting amazing times in the qualifying session, despite the penalty waiting for him for the race. He was dancing with the car, tracing beautiful lines within the colourful ones Paul Ricard was known for. Carlos would start P19 the next day, only ahead of Magnussen, who also had a back-of-the-grid penalty.

I traded the interviews for a dip in the pool and lingered there for the remainder of the afternoon. Perhaps because I was not the best person to have around that day, my parents had left just before lunch and didn't get back until after dinner. Alone, with music echoing throughout the house and the crippling anxiety the events that week had provoked, I felt myself get lost in the doubts and uncertainties.

My phone rang when I was already getting ready for bed. On my nightstand, the name Carlos appeared over an old photo of both of us. Like I couldn't control it, I walked to the phone and sat on the bed. I let it ring a few times before picking it up.

“Hi,” he said. I just looked through the window, to the dark backyard. “No good luck text today?”

“Guess not.”

“And why's that?”

“Did you know Rio had an interview to work at Ferrari?”

“Yes...?” He paused. “Is that a problem?”

“Did you know he got a job offer?”

We both fell into a moment of silence. A long sigh stretched through the line. I closed my eyes, not sure what to expect from the conversation. The next time his voice was heard, it was more serious.

"Can we stop asking questions instead of answering them?"

"The timing is funny," I said. "Just that."

"What do you mean?"

"You coming to Mugello? Was that a coincidence?"

"Eva, what?" Carlos was silent for a few seconds. "Don't make this into a drama," he said. "Rio is talented and if he got a job offer it's because he earned it. The things are not remotely related."

"I'm not complaining about him getting the job."

"Then what are you complaining about?" Carlos asked.

"That it took you years to finally come back and talk to me and it happened just when he got a job in your team. Did you really want to talk to me or did he make you do that?"

"I didn't do it for him," Carlos said. "I did it because I wanted to see you."

"I wish I could believe you."

"And why don't you?"

"It's been three years. Coincidences don't just happen."

I could hear him breathe. Silence weighed down my chest. He wasn't denying it. He wasn't telling me why he was there, that night. "Can I see you this week?" He asked me, before a long sigh.

"No."

"I'll be in Maranello for a few days." I bit my lip, shaking my head to the void. "You'll be in Imola, right? I can go there—"

"I don't want to see you." I talked over him and then paused for a brief second. "Don't show up there, please. It's an important week and I don't really need more distractions."

“Eva, por favor.”

“Good luck tomorrow.”

I put my phone away and let myself sink into the bed, feeling nothing but the warmth of the comforters on my skin and the instant sense of security that came over me. I allowed my eyes to close and my mind to drift away, and before I knew it, a prayer for Carlos came into my thoughts.

I prayed for strength for both him and me, for us. I knew that, whether we were on or off the track, we would need to find a way to get through whatever was to come.

Next Chapter: 04.

Thank you for your support in the previous chapter! Carlos will become a more present character in the future. Pinky promise. Don't abandon me until that happens, please! <3

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