Page 28 of The Fast Track

I’ve hesitated a moment too long. Cameron’s absent-mindedly reaching for the remaining tampon.

“Wait, no, I got it!” I lunge.

Our hands collide, mine closing over his. A tingling prickles through me, but before I can pause to dissect it, I lose my balance and fall face-first onto the floor.

“You all right?” Cameron helps me up by the elbow. Humiliatingly, he still has his hand wrapped around my tampon.

I snatch it from him and shove it deep into the recesses of my backpack, praying he hasn’t had a chance to consciously recognize what it is yet. “Sorry, that was something important.”

An incredulous smirk plays on the corner of his lips. “Your tampon? That’s what you’re all worked up about?”

Hearing those words come out of his mouth makes me want to shrivel up and die. I fasten the singular button on my tote and power walk toward the lobby. “I am not talking about my… bodily functions with you.”

Cameron swaggers alongside me, easily keeping up. “Don’t see why you’re so squeamish. My sister used to leave that stuff all over the bathroom counter. Bit annoying, actually.”

So that was why he hadn’t run away screaming. “How old is she?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Are you guys close?” I’ve always wanted a sister, someoneI could confide in and complain to about Mom. I wonder if Cameron and his sister are best friends, or mortal enemies, or somewhere in between. If he enjoys needling her as much as he does me.

“As close as we could be, I s’pose. I like racing; she likes maths. She went to uni in Manchester and works as a financial analyst in the City now.”

“Do you get to see her a lot?”

“She comes to almost all of my races. Still can barely tell Orbital from Marino, though.”

Scuderia Marino is our fiercest rival. I giggle despite myself.

Cameron shrugs in awhat can you do?way. “What about you? Have you got any sisters?”

I shake my head. “Only child. I have a cousin around my age, though. I only see her a few times a year, less now that we’re over here.”

“Do you miss the States?”

I pause. No one has bothered to ask me this the entire four months I’ve been in the UK. I haven’t even thought about it properly because it’s been sensory overload jumping into the world of Formula 3 racing—but now that Cameron asked, the words come tumbling out. “Most of the time, no. But every now and then, randomly, I guess? Like how you can go drive up to a window and someone will hand you hamburgers. Or normal-size parking spaces. Or just the general air of not feeling stressed out all the time.”

“What are you stressed about?”

I chew my lip, debating whether to pull it back or keep going. I opt for the latter. We’ve already discussed feminine hygiene today—might as well. “I guess, since I’m new to Europe and all, feeling like I’m on the cusp of blowing it every second?”

“Welcome to the club.” He chuckles.

I glance at him curiously. What couldhebe stressed about? He’s leading the F3 championship, beloved by the staff, popular up and down the paddock. He literally grew up here, in the heart of Motorsport Valley. A sure thing doesn’t exist in racing, but Cameron Evans is as close as it gets.

“It’s a pressure cooker,” he says. “But it’ll be worth it.”

He stops there. I know he’s thinking about Formula 1, the path ahead. He radiates determination in a way that makes me certain Frank told him about the open seat before me.

The thought is depressing. Not that I expected to be the lead horse, but thinking you’re not and knowing you’re not are very different things.

We come out the side exit of the OTC to the transit dock. There are enough open golf carts today that we don’t have to share. I hop into the first empty one.

Cameron, to my surprise, follows me. “You gonna strand me again if I don’t take my own buggy?” he asks, resting his hand lightly on the top of the cart.

My lips twitch despite myself. “No urgent meetings today. But no promises.”

“Guess I’ll take my chances.” He slips into the passenger’s seat next to me. “Don’t worry; wheel is all yours today.”