by Kat Ransom
I’m also still wondering why he winked at me.
I could have sworn I saw him Saturday night at the club Klara and I went to, but I’d dismissed it and assumed my eyes were just playing tricks on me again. God knows they’ve done that plenty over the years.
Before I know it, both free practice sessions are over for the day. I’ve asked Edmund a litany of questions, and I have downloaded the day’s data set to my laptop so I can continue analyzing it tonight.
I need to keep myself busy because as much as I was focusing and paying attention, I entertained a whole mess of inappropriate thoughts about Cole. Ideas about his deep voice and that tight little race suit.
Those ideas, and so many other strategic plans about how I’m going to deal with him, need to be on the back burner.
“Oh good, Emily, I want you to meet someone,” Edmund grabs my elbow as we re-enter the garage area, and I try to ignore Cole and his personnel crew standing in the back.
A very well dressed man in a tailored suit smiles at us and makes his way to Edmund and I. “Edmund, hello,” he calls in a lovely French accent and shakes Edmund’s hand.
“Olivier, this is Emily Walker, our new Tire and Performance Engineer. Emily, this is Olivier Gaspard, Motorsports Director for Concordia Tires. You two will have a lot to talk about, I’m sure.”
“Ah, Emily, I have heard so much about you,” Olivier takes my hand and holds it in his large, soft hand. His dark hair is perfectly mussed, and his crisp white button-down pops off the blue suit that looks like it costs more than my first and second cars, combined.
Olivier must be in his mid to late thirties and is very easy on the eyes.
“Nice to meet you, Olivier,” I smile and pull my hand back because there’s an extended shake happening and I don’t want to seem weird already on my first day on track.
“I have so many questions on the paper you published in the Journal of Materials Science.”
“You read it?” I ask and blush a little being put on the spot like this. I mean, I guess it makes sense, but I am still so humbled that the paper picked up so much traction from international companies.
“Oui, of course. Very impressive!”
Great, now I’m blushing more as Olivier, the handsome, rich dude in an expensive suit, starts speaking French at me. “I can’t take all the credit, I was a co-author with my Professor.”
“Nonsense,” Edmund interrupts. “Emily’s going to be brilliant for the team. The next generation.”
“Oh, you aren’t finally giving in to the idea of retirement, are you?”
“Ehh,” Edmund mumbles, “one of these days, I’ll take my pension and learn to play golf.”
“Emily, s’il vous plaît, are you free to have a coffee with me? I’m sure you have as many questions as I do,” Olivier smiles at me with perfectly straight, white teeth, his oversized gold Rolex reflecting the sun’s rays.
“Is that okay?” I ask Edmund. I do have a running tally of questions in my head, and, as I understand it, Olivier is the official representative of Concordia that’s at each race and available to all the F1 teams.
“Yes, yes, go,” Edmund says. “I want you to learn everything there is to know. You know the challenges with this season’s tires, so I expect you’ll be spending a lot of time with Olivier.”
“Okay.”
Olivier and Edmund shake hands again, and then Olivier points the way through the garage so we can exit the rear door. We make our way back to the private team areas where all the motorhomes and hospitality suites are. I let him lead because I’m not sure where he wants to meet.
On the way through the garage, I catch Cole watching us. I feel Cole watching us. He’s surrounded by his physio and personal assistant. I recognize both from television but have not met either yet.
He doesn’t glare or wink. His eyes just follow me as I walk through the garage.
I really don’t want things to be weird. Weirder.
You were looking at him, too. Stop reading into things.
Outside, the afternoon sun is shining. There’s the same bustle of activity—crews walking up and down the service road between all the portable buildings.
I smile a little bit to myself. I’m in Germany and just spent the morning on the pit wall of an F1 track, and now I’m meeting with the Director of an international manufacturing company.
Besides that one little winking incident, there’s been no embarrassing moments. No mental breakdowns. I did not die. I think it’s okay to pat myself on the back a little.
Olivier leads us into a Concordia motorhome along the row of team buildings and holds the door open for me. It’s every bit as posh as the Imperium motorhome, but not as young and hip. This is more timeless with cream leather sofas and gold accent pieces.
“Have a seat, I’ll fetch us coffee. Americano for you, I assume?” Olivier directs me to a sofa in the main room.
“Depends, do you have a fancy coffee machine in here, too?”
“Of course, complete with a barista. We are a French company, after all, Emily,” Olivier smiles.
“In that case, a flat white, please.”
Olivier nods, and I take in my surroundings while he’s gone.
I know that Formula 1 is perhaps the most wealthy sport in all of the world. Each of these motorhomes cost nearly ten million dollars to construct, each car can cost fifteen or twenty-million to build, but seeing it in person is quite different from reading about it or seeing it on TV.
I learned a lot about racing and motorsports through Cole when he was karting in high school, and that alone was ridiculously expensive, but nothing like this.
This is like Russian oligarch money. If history is any lesson, no good comes from this much concentrated wealth.
“Mon cher,” Olivier hands me my coffee on a dainty saucer, and I let out a laugh when I look at the microfoam floating on top. It’s a cute little race car. I’d love to take a photo for Klara, but I don’t want to embarrass myself by acting like such a rookie.
Because cool things like this happen to me every day.
Olivier takes a seat next to me on the sofa. As I take a sip of my coffee, I can’t help notice that he’s staring at me.
“So, I’ve spent a lot of time talking to Edmund about the tire performance issues, and I’d like to jump in and learn as much as I can right away,” I blurt out to avoid this staring-thing that’s happening.
“Ha, plenty of time for that. Tell me about yourself, Emily.”
Olivier is turned towards me. He’s sitting on one leg, has one hand over the back of the couch, and while I know the French tend to be a bit more… relaxed than Americans, this is not a work pose I’m familiar with. This feels like he’s at a lounge choosing women for the evening.
“Umm, well, I graduated from the University of Cambridge earlier this year, and, as you know, my thesis was in tire…”
“No. Tell me about yourself, Emily. What do you do for fun? What brings you joy?” Olivier interrupts me.
Brings me joy? What kind of Oprah Magazine bullshit is that?
“Oh. Well, I love to read. I spent a lot of time at the beach when I lived in Florida and in California. Umm, I’ve recently really gotten into cooking. I want to look into cheesemaking, in fact.”
Olivier lets out a burst of laughter and interrupts my rambling stream of gibberish, “Cooking and cheesemaking?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of…” I pause. I don’t want to tell Olivier, this suave wealthy guy, that something about creating a finished product out of raw ingredients and the science that goes into baking, particularly, appeals to me. Or that I like it when the thing I just made gets eaten and makes someone happy. “It’s just relaxing.”
It’s something simple, fun, and the worst consequence of failing at it means a full trash bin and no one but me knows.
“Well, then you must come to France. Best food and cheese in the world.”
I nod and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear nervously, �
�Next year, for sure. I just missed the France Grand Prix.”
Olivier goes back to his staring. I feel awkward, and I’m pretty sure he was making fun of me when I brought up the damn cheese.
As I do in these situations, I divert right back to my comfort zone, “I haven’t been able to find the materials data for Concordia’s F1 tire line. Is that something you can get for me?”
“The materials data?” He quirks his head.
“Yes, the build sheets, the chemical processes, information on all of the polymers and…”
“I’m afraid that is all proprietary, Emily,” he shakes his head and sits up on the couch from his relaxed position.
“Proprietary.”
“Yes, it means the information is…”
“I know what proprietary means,” I interject a little too quickly.
Shit, that was defensive, and I practically barked at him. I’m a little edgy about being one of the only women in the paddock at all, and I have a short fuse for people assuming I’m an idiot because I happen to have tits. “Sorry, what information can you share then?”
Olivier stands. I guess coffee time is over. “I’ll be happy to send you all the information available, mon cher.”
I take my cue to leave and stand up. Shit got awkward quick.
Cheesemaking and proprietary information, ugh.
“My card,” Oliver passes me his business card. “Don’t hesitate to contact me with any questions or concerns. I’m sure we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, Emily. Welcome to the paddock.”
He smiles warmly at me again, and now I’m not sure if he’s upset with me or not. I hate feeling awkward like this. Sometimes I wish I could flip my own switch and stop thinking so much.
“I don’t have a business card yet, but I can give you my email?” I say as we head to the door.
“Your email?”
“For the tire information.”
“Oui, right. I’ll get it from Edmund.”
“Okay, thanks. Nice to meet you, Olivier.”
He nods and holds the door open for me, and I make my escape.
Cheesemaking.
Good lord, Emily.
Nine
“So hard to find my way, now that I'm all on my own. I saw you just the other day, my, how you have grown.” - Van Morrison - Brown Eyed Girl
Cole
“Why do you give them your number?” Dante asks me as my phone lights up again and again on the coffee table between us. “Rookie mistake.”
I sit forward on the couch on the rooftop deck of the motorhome and grab the phone. I haven’t looked at it all day. But now qualification is over, the sun is about to set, and things have quieted down the for day. And I need to deal with this.
I come up here to the rooftop to relax. It’s one of the only quiet places available around the track, but the constant lighting up and buzzing is getting old, and this is a problem that isn’t going to go away on its own.
I glance through the thirty-six messages and roll my eyes.
“Stage-five clinger,” Dante says as he throws his feet up onto the table across from me.
“Seriously,” I groan and dial the number.
Of course, she answers on the first ring and embarks upon her tirade.
Ninety percent of the time, Nova is a sane and reasonable woman. I have always been exceedingly clear that this is not a relationship and, ninety percent of the time, she is in agreement. It’s the other ten percent of the time that’s the problem.
Like now.
“Nova,” I try to interrupt her rant that slips between English and Russian. “Nova, listen to me. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
I pull the phone away from my ear at her high pitched scream. Dante’s eyes go wide, and his shoulders rock in laughter at my predicament. I don’t think he’s ever spent more than one night with the same woman, so this is hilarious to him.
“Stop yelling.”
She does not stop yelling. I’m going to have to talk over her.
“Nova, I need you to hear me. We can’t do this anymore. We don’t want the same things. I’ve told you this.”
Dante makes the motions of playing a fake violin.
Nova is now crying.
“No, we don’t. I’m sorry, Nova. That’s not going to happen.” I try to combat every point she makes, and I’m trying not to be a dick, but my patience with this is running out. Lately, every few months, it’s the same thing. “We are never getting married.”
“Married?” Dante blurts out in horror, and I kick his foot.
“Shut the fuck up,” I mouth at him.
“You don’t love me. You don’t even know me, Nova.” Nova’s well acquainted with my dick, but that’s about it. “Okay, well, I am not in love with you, and I never will be,” I clarify when she doesn’t accept my first argument.
A stream of Russian profanity courses through the line. I don’t want to be cruel, but this has to stop. This is why I don’t touch anything that even resembles a relationship anymore.
“Nova, it’s over. For good. Stop calling, don’t show up. It’s over. Do you understand?”
When an ear-piercing “fuck you” reverberates through my phone and the line goes dead, I assume she finally understands. I toss my phone back onto the coffee table and pray it’s quiet for the rest of the evening.
“Jesus,” I groan.
“She’s going to cut your balls off, man,” Dante laughs. “This about the brown-eyed girl?” This has been Dante’s nickname for Emily since she started at Imperium as if she’s the Van Morrison song.
I haven’t heard that in years.
“No, this is about Nova being a bunny boiler.”
That’s at least half-true, anyway. This isn’t the first time she’s brought up getting married. We’ve never so much as gone on a date, it’s ridiculous for a multitude of reasons. But especially because I’ve long since given up on the concept.
I haven’t had an emotional connection with anyone since I left home, since I left Emily. I tried, for a while, then I gave up. Sex was sex. I’m not going to deny I’ve had a lot of fun, but that extra layer was never there again.
At some point, it didn’t even make the loneliness go away anymore, either.
Dante checks his watch, “I’m out of here, you coming?”
The sun is down, and the stars are just starting to come out. I just want to sit here alone in the quiet for a little bit before I leave for the hotel. “Go ahead, I’ll catch you later.”
Dante leaves, and I lie down on the couch, put my arms behind my head, and watch the stars above me start to twinkle and come out for the night. I used to do this a lot and think about it being the same sky that Emily was under somewhere else in the world. She could see the same thing I was if she were doing the same.
I reach behind me to stuff a throw pillow under my head, and something hard falls out. It hits the deck next to the couch with a thud. Glancing over the couch, I pick it up—Emily’s Kindle. I know it’s hers because she has a black leather cover on it that makes it look like an antique book.
Back on the sofa, I arrange my pillow and lie back down. Let’s see what Emily’s reading. It’ll probably be tales of organic chemistry or a how-to book on splitting atoms for fun and leisure.
I flip open the cover, and the on-screen book advertisement is a sweaty naked dude’s torso, “Abs of Thunder—Marcus Wolf is a wealthy playboy, and he takes what he pleases in this 5-star steamy series of office bad boys.”
I laugh to myself, fucking Amazon.
I swipe the Kindle open, and it’s on the end credits for whatever book Emily’s just finished, so I click the home button.
Her library looks like a Google image search for abs.
Swipe, swipe, swipe—pages, and pages of books with dude abs. Motorcycle dude abs, guy in a suit abs, guy with his arm around a chick in a bra abs. I spend two hours a day in a gym, and I have never seen so many abs.
Emily Walker is into smutty book
s now? Fascinating.
I go back to the home screen and look at some of the titles to see what she’s into these days.
Taking What’s His
My Filthy Billionaire Boss
Surrender to My Control
Rock Hard Racing
Hmmm, Rock Hard Racing, you say?
Tapping on that icon, I settle into the couch while the sounds of the paddock die down for the night, and the sky continues to darken.
Ugh, it’s about NASCAR, lame.
Nevertheless, I want to know what Emily’s been reading all those times I saw her in the coffee shop. I start reading Charlotte and Steel’s torrid love affair.
Who is named Steel in real life? This is ridiculous.
Three chapters in and things are getting serious. Charlotte is in trouble, her ruthless boss is on her case, and she needs this job to pay for her mama’s kidney transplant. Is Steel going to pussy out and let that happen? He’s been trying to get into Charlotte’s pants, but she needs this job, damnit.
“Just pay for the operation, you douche,” I mutter to myself.
Another couple of chapters breeze by, and Charlotte is now spread eagle on Steel’s tongue, and everyone’s loins are burning, bosoms are heaving.
I picture Emily reading this stuff every night as she tucks herself into bed, getting hot and touching herself. She always liked me talking filthy to her, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but I can’t stand the thought of other guys talking to her like that.
Did the guy she was dancing with at the club take her home and say this shit to her, too?
“Is that my, oh my god, what are you doing?” I hadn’t even heard Emily come up the stairs onto the deck.
“Give me that,” she tries to swipe the Kindle from me, but my arms are much longer. I hold it out of her reach as I lie on the couch with her hovering above me.
“I’m just getting to the good part,” I smile. Even under the moonlit sky, I can see Emily’s face turn bright red and a flush start to overtake her neck.
“This isn’t funny,” she holds her hand out, expecting me to hand her the Kindle back. There’s a slight tremble to her fingers.
