Page 31 of The Fast Track

I take a breath. The longer I try to hold it in, the worse it’ll be when I finally let it out. “He’s not around anymore.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry.”

I can tell by the way Cameron’s face falls what he’s thinking, what most people think when they first hear about Dad’s absence. “It’s okay. He’s not dead. He just… left.”

Which is a thousand times worse. A parent you can never talk to because of forces out of your control is one thing. A parent you can never talk to because he prefers it that way—because you were too much and not enough all at once—is a stake to the heart.

“I never knew,” Cameron says. “I just assumed he was too busy jetting around to come to Spielberg.” This is not an inaccurate guess. Most drivers have at least one parent who has too many board meetings to regularly make it to races.

“He is busy,” I say, “with his new family.”

A few years ago, I let curiosity get the best of me and went searching for Dad on social media. He was insultingly easy to track down. His Facebook had tech-illiterate levels of privacy and I saw it all. Him, looking exactly the same except with bits of gray at his temples, standing next to a smiling blond woman and three beautiful kids somewhere between the ages of baby and elementary school.

I faked the flu and stayed in bed the rest of the day. I never mentioned it to Mom.

“Well,” Cameron says, “whoever they are, they can’t be as cool as you.”

I stare at him in astonishment.

He fidgets with the rear-wing flap in his hand. “I’m pretty sure odds are, whoever those kids are, they’re not going to be a future F1 driver.”

“You think I’m going to make it?” I breathe.

“You’re not bad. I mean, you’re not as good as me, but you can definitely drive.”

“Thanks, Cameron.” I fight the urge to throw my arms around him. I know I’m only getting a pity compliment, but this is the first time someone other than Mom, or a peppy marketing person, or a podcaster who’s obligated to be nice to guests, has told me they think I’m capable of making it.

He smiles. “I bet you’ll be on the F1 podium someday—probably eating crisps during your interview—and you won’t even remember it was your father who got you into racing to begin with.”

I pause. This is startlingly close to my own secret daydreams. I’m either obviously transparent or Cameron sees me better than I realize. Maybe both.

“I hope so too,” I finally say.

Cameron hums under his breath during our drive back to the OTC. I don’t mind because I’m in a good mood, too. We managed to get through almost all of the parts sorting today. With any luck, it’ll only take a couple more sessions to piece the entire car together.

I look over. “What song is that?”

“Backstreet Boys.”

“Is that supposed to be ‘I Want It That Way’?”

He nods, still humming away. If I listen very carefully and ignore a couple of off-key jumps, I can just pick out the iconic chorus.

“Can I be honest? I thought that was Billie Eilish.”

“You calling me out for poor singing?”

“No.” I manage to keep a straight face. “But it’s a good thing you’re a driver and not trying out for a boy band.” Although with his looks, I could easily see his photo pinned up in someone’s room.

“If you’re such a musician, why don’t you take it away?” I see him grinning out of the corner of my eye.

“Not here.”

“C’mon, what are you scared of? Unless you think I’m a better singer and I’ll judge you, which I will.”

I roll my eyes, smiling in spite of myself. “With your ear? You wouldn’t be able to tell Y2K pop from yodeling.”

“Definitely scared.”