Fast & Wet

by Kat Ransom

  “I am home. This is my home.”

  “Your home is with your mother and I. You’ve graduated, and it’s time to come back now. We’ll work all of this out.”

  I laugh, maniacally, “I don’t have a home with you. I’m a grown woman, for starters. I don’t even know where you might be living this month. Are you still in Delaware, or have you uprooted everyone yet again?”

  “Don’t be such a child.”

  The words ‘fuck you’ hover over my tongue, but something deep inside of me won’t let them come out. Years of conditioning, I’m sure. “I’m not coming back home, ever. You and Mom are dead to me,” I say instead.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll come there, then. I can get some time off in the next month or two, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, how nice of you to prioritize me in the next month or two, Daddy. It’s really all you can do, given the fact that you’ve ruined my life.” I have never called the Major General ‘Daddy’ in all of my years, but it seemed especially hurtful, and I want him to hurt right now, hurt as much as I do.

  “No one has ruined your life except that degenerate boy,” the loathing in his voice makes my skin crawl.

  At that moment, I wish I had no self-respect at all. I wish I was the kind of person who would use Cole because I would run right back to him just to piss off my father at this point.

  I’d marry him and get knocked up just to spite him. Have a million goddamn Ballentine babies and ram them down his throat.

  They’re utterly ridiculous thoughts, and I know it. They’re born of panic and rage and the insatiable need for revenge. But I’m not impulsive or stupid, no matter how much they all want me to feel like it.

  I won’t let them manipulate me anymore.

  And I never used Cole, never.

  “You will not contact him, or me, ever again. Do you understand me, DAD?”

  He chuffs, like I’m nothing. Like I’m silly, frivolous, stupid. “On what planet do you think you live? You don’t issue commands to me.”

  “I am not one of your soldiers. This is my life, mine! And you are no longer welcome in it. You or Mom. I am blocking you both. I won’t see your calls. I will not open any letters you send. If you show up here, I will call the police. You feel me now, Major General?”

  My hand covers my mouth, my eyes go wide. I can’t believe I just said that to him, I don’t know where it came from. I didn’t know I had it in me. I am so grateful he can’t see me because I am shaking like a leaf, despite the gangster words my lying mouth spews forward.

  “Emily!”

  I say nothing, and he shouts my name again.

  “Goodbye, Dad.”

  I disconnect the call, and I block him.

  I block my mother.

  I don’t block Cole.

  My traitorous fingers won’t physically push the buttons, and I hate myself that I can’t do it. My fingers grip the cell phone until I think I might crack the screen, and then I scream and spike it into the carpet.

  Cole may have been able to flex his shoulders and take a deep breath after twenty-four hours of wallowing, shrug it all off at the final hour.

  But for me? Hour twenty-five brings only rage, anger, and an unbridled sense of betrayal.

  Twenty Seven

  Suzuka Circuit, Japan

  Cole

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you back, man,” I clap Edmund on the back and take a seat on the outdoor loveseat atop our motorhome in Japan. Liam and Dante are both here, too, welcoming Edmund back to his first race since he took leave.

  “Well, after Singapore, it was clear I’m still needed here,” he laughs.

  He’s lost a bit of weight and looks tired, his complexion is pale, but we’re all beyond thrilled that he had a nasty case of walking pneumonia and not lung cancer.

  It’s taking the sting off, just a smidgen, from the fact that Emily isn’t in the garage this weekend. I expected as much, she’s a runner, as much as she wants to believe that I’m the one who does the leaving.

  Every argument or fight we had in the past, she’d run. And if she didn’t run, she’d retreat back inside of herself, which was just as bad. I think she figured if she ran away from the situation, she couldn’t possibly be bad at something or fail at it.

  I feel Edmund staring at me while I gaze off into the distance. He purses his lips, “I didn’t tell her, but she knows how she got the job. HR told her when she put in for leave.”

  I nod. “I know,” I tell him while Dante and Liam sit silent, pretending this isn’t awkward as hell. I’ve dragged them all into our mess, begrudgingly.

  Dante showed up unannounced at my apartment, like he’s prone to doing, and saw the state I was in. If I wasn’t drunk out of my mind, I don’t know if I would have ever told him.

  But I did, he knows everything.

  We’ve been roommates, we’ve grown up from gangly teenagers to men together. We were ignorant jackasses racing karts when we met, and now we’re both accomplished in F1. But it took this for me to spill my guts. The things I kept secret all that time poured out of me that night over bottles of bourbon.

  I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I don’t feel ashamed like I thought I would. Maybe Emily broke the seal. I figured, if she didn’t judge me, others wouldn’t, either.

  But beyond that, if Emily can accept me for all the baggage I come with, I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks. As long as I have her, as long as she can love me, to hell with the opinions of others.

  I am not Stan, I am not my mother. I am not the byproduct of the two of them, or their combined dysfunctions, crimes, or sins. I know it, and, as angry as I am over the shit Emily said to me, she knows it, too.

  She’s hurt.

  Horrible words come out of everyone’s mouths from time to time, it doesn’t mean we believe them. Like stubbing your toe against the bedpost late at night, pain lace expletives come out of all our mouths when we’re hurting.

  Liam knows less. He figured out something was very wrong when I asked him to resume delivering prepped meals for me. I thought about asking him to take some to Cambridge too, knowing Emily won’t eat when she’s upset, but I didn’t want to land him in jail.

  Because Emily actually threatened to have me arrested. Or rather, Klara did.

  After I gave her a couple days to cool down, I drove there to talk to her, to work this out. Klara met me outside and said she was given orders to call the police if she ever saw a Lamborghini, a Ferrari, a McLaren, a Bugatti, or ‘any other car worth six figures’ parked outside.

  The competitor in me wanted to come back on a motorcycle, or in a thrashed Fiat. But I let her win this round.

  I would be more insulted if Klara didn’t add that she’s to call the cops on any men who show up in US military outfits, as well, so I know we’re all on Emily’s shit-list.

  Then Emily put in for official leave at Imperium.

  But she didn’t quit.

  She hasn’t blocked my number, as far as I can tell. It still rings when I call, I can leave voicemails. My texts say they’ve been delivered. Google confirms I haven’t been blocked.

  She hasn’t answered.

  But this is the game we play.

  I know it’s anything but a game to her, right now, technically. Of all people, I understand the pain she’s going through. It’s taken me my whole life to deal with the feelings so I’ll give her the time she needs.

  But I meant what I said to her. As long as she wants me, and I think she does, there is no corner of the world that I won’t follow her to. No amount of time or distance has ever been able to stop it.

  I’ll be miserable right alongside her, in different corners of the world, for as long as it takes.

  “She’s still working on the tires, too, with Tillman from Cambridge,” Edmund tells me, knowing I’m always desperate for affirmation that I haven’t lost her forever.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Mmm-hmm, it’s the other reason I came b
ack early, even against the doctor’s wishes,” he coughs and proves his point. He’s still on a mess of antibiotics and pills. If I weren’t such a selfish prick, I’d feel bad he’s here, not home in bed where he belongs.

  “She’s right about the bloody tires. They’ve gotten them all broken down and are running computer simulations now. It’s not good,” he continues.

  “What do you mean?” Dante asks. This affects him, too. It affects all of us on the track.

  “Not sure yet. Let’s pray for dry races, though, boys.” Edmund sighs and tries to make light of the situation, but we all know how serious it is. We all know Alessi is still laid up in a neck brace and going through physical therapy right now.

  And he got lucky. The incredible safety advances in these cars are the only reason he’s alive. The engineering marvels created by people like Emily.

  The first thing Edmund did when he got back was cornering me, emphasize the accident wasn’t my fault. I knew it, logically, but he knew it meant something to me to hear him say it.

  “Is that why Olivier has been hanging around even more?” Dante asks.

  “Probably,” Edmund confirms. “Emily and Tillman tried going over his head at Concordia. Olivier isn’t happy.”

  “I don’t trust him,” Dante huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “No one trusts him,” Liam adds.

  I don’t know how deep this thing with Olivier or Concordia runs, but Liam is right. Everyone in the paddock is distrustful of Olivier. He’s just too smooth, too slick, he gives everyone the creeps and sets off their bullshit-meters.

  Twenty grand in tires, per race, per team. I didn’t grow up surrounded by this kind of money, I know what it does to people.

  And he knows Emily is on to him. Better safe than sorry.

  Cole: Can you arrange for security for Emily please?

  Mila: Yes. One person?

  Cole: Two, unless that’s too obvious. 24/7. I don’t want her knowing they’re there. She’ll rip my balls off.

  Mila: I’m on it.

  Cole: Thank you

  She’s going to be even more pissed, but I’ll take pissed and alive-and-well over the alternative. If they’re good, she’ll never even know they’re there.

  “Okay, gentleman, I need to rest. I’ll leave you to it,” Edmund stands and heads down the stairs leaving Dante, Liam, and I alone on the rooftop.

  I lean my head back on the sofa cushion and look up at the familiar stars overhead. It’s late morning in London, she isn’t even able to see the same constellations as me right now.

  I don’t know how much time has passed, lost in my thoughts, when Dante interrupts, “It was more fun with the brown-eyed girl here.”

  “It was,” Liam kicks his feet up on the coffee table and settles in like we’re going to have a friendly group discussion about this now.

  “We aren’t doing this,” I whisk that notion away.

  “I’m not doing anything,” Dante quips sarcastically, “nothing at all.”

  “What can you possibly contribute, anyway?” I challenge, “There is absolutely no sage advice you can offer. You’re the biggest whore on the planet.”

  Liam nods.

  “That’s true,” Dante agrees.

  Idiot.

  “I’m still jealous I didn’t get to steal the tire with you guys,” Liam adds.

  Dante tells him the story again, laughing and moaning as he impersonates Emily pretending we were having some kind of orgy in the garage restroom.

  I feel myself smiling as I remember it.

  “Why the hell are you smiling? You’re supposed to be miserable. You’re supposed to miss her. Hell, we miss her. Did you know that she thanks Siri when she asks her phone to do something? Who does that?” Liam furrows his brows at me.

  “I’m plenty miserable, thanks for asking.” And yes, I know that she thanks Siri, even when she has to push the button a second time just to say it.

  I just have enough faith in Emily, in us, that she’ll come back. She knows I’m not going anywhere. She now knows I’ve always been there, even if that makes me a stalker, or whatever she called me.

  She forgets she told me she was doing the same thing for six years. Watching all my races, reading all my interviews, prowling the social media posts I made solely because I knew she’d see them.

  She’s smart, and she has inner strength she underestimates, but she’s stubborn. Pushing her now will only make her feel more manipulated and defensive. Even if she doesn’t believe in herself, I believe in her, and I have to believe she’ll come back.

  I just pray it isn’t another six years.

  More than anything, I hate that she is all alone right now. It’s the worst feeling in the world. You can surround yourself with hundreds of people and still feel so utterly, devastatingly alone.

  I wish she could see the stars right now and know she isn’t.

  “If you two want to help, maybe just text her and just let her know you miss her.” She doesn’t want to hear from me, but she does have other people who care about her. She should know that.

  I may have called Makenna a couple of days ago and asked her to do the same. We ended up yelling at one another, but I’m still glad I called because Emily hadn’t told her anything.

  Makenna wanted to blame me, which is fine. That’s her job as Emily’s best friend to support her, throw me under the bus, and call me every name in the book. I get it.

  It is ironic, though, that those privileges do not extend to men. If men speak that way about a friend’s recent ex, they’d expect a swift, blinding, and well-deserved fist to the face.

  Regardless, I may have told Makenna off for planting nonsense in Emily’s mind about me cheating on her the day she raided our apartment.

  The only important thing is that she’s not alone, wallowing in despair, throwing up, starving herself, crying all day and night.

  Emily and I process pain differently. She wants to sit with her grief and analyze it endlessly, make sense of it. She wants to strategize and plan her way out of it, every move needs to be calculated and precise.

  I get pissed.

  That’s the only reason I’ve made anything out of my life in the wake of the shitty upbringing I endured. It’s my ultimate revenge on Stan and Kristy. Every time they hurt me, I use it as fuel.

  So if Liam really wants to know why I’m smiling right now, it’s because I’m pissed. Pissed at this ridiculous situation that’s been foisted upon us. Pissed that Emily is not beside me right now.

  And those responsible are going to pay in the way it hurts them the most—by watching Emily be happy. Doing whatever the fuck she wants, wherever the fuck she wants, and with whoever the fuck she wants.

  That’s just always been with me.

  “You did it. That is P1! P1 for you! Excellent race, just outstanding, Cole,” Edmund’s voice comes through my helmet as I cross the finish line in first at Suzuka.

  “Yes, yes!” I scream, pumping my fists into the air, adrenaline flowing through me like fire blazing through dry brush.

  Lennox pulls up beside me on track and gives me the finger, then a thumbs up a second later before he pulls away, and I start my victory lap. We were neck and neck the last ten laps, it was intense and so much goddamn fun.

  “Thank you, Edmund,” I say through the radio, so grateful he’s back with us. “Thank you, everyone. Everybody back in the factory. You too, GG, thank you.”

  I know she’s watching the race, probably holed up in her bedroom right now on her laptop. She’s never missed one. I hope they play my audio on live tv for her.

  Pulling the car up to the Number One sign in parc ferme, I pull myself out of the car and stand on top of it, pumping my steering wheel into the sky while the fans go nuts. Flags and signs waive in the crowd. The Japanese fans are notorious for being the best in the world, and they don’t let me down.

  The team sucks me into hugs and slaps my helmet over the crowd barrier. The only thing that would
make it better is if she were here, kissing my helmet again, telling me she was proud of me.

  The television crew points a massive camera in my face, and I take the lens in both of my hands. I bend my head down in front of it and point my gloved finger right at the spot on my helmet where her initials are printed. This time they’re in big, bold, red letters, EW, emblazoned across the top.

  I tap the initials, pound my fist over my heart twice, and point at the camera.

  That’s for you, baby.

  I’m here.

  I’m never leaving.

  I’m coming for you.

  Twenty Eight

  Emily

  It’s early Sunday morning in Cambridge, but late afternoon in Mexico City and also in Texas, where Makenna is joining us from Skype.

  For the first time, I am not hidden in my bedroom while I watch Cole’s race. It’s playing on the small television in our apartment with Klara by my side and Makenna joining us, virtually.

  We have coffee, she has margaritas.

  I’m off the Sailor Jerry now, at least.

  I’m pretty sure Klara was ready to have me committed if I didn’t fess up to what my problem was. I don’t blame her. I had to borrow clothes from her, a phone charger, even deodorant—until I was able to drag myself into the land of the living to replace the bare essentials I’d moved into Cole’s apartment.

  The least I could do was explain to her what was going on with her psycho roommate. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.

  More likely, I finally broke under the weight of having absolutely no one to commiserate with, and I’m only making excuses for my uncharacteristic transparency.

  For her part, Klara pulled her shirt up and showed me the scar from her first love—a very, well, unfortunate tattoo on her lower back with his name in script lettering. She said it’s been years, but she still can’t bring herself to have it laser removed.

  Then she shrugged and said she really hasn’t had the money, anyway.

  But I know what she meant.