Page 75 of The Fast Track

“How could you throw your future away? What did I say the night before you decided to pour it all down the drain?”

I remember all too well. Regret and remorse bubble and steam into indignation. “You’re the one who was pushing me toward Dietrich.”

“I said that boy is great for your exposure. Not whatever ended up in the pages ofThe Weekly Mail.”

“You were singing to yourself after I told you Dietrich asked me to the gala!”

“Was I happy my daughter was attending a high-profile event with an age-appropriate Formula 1 star? Of course. But there’s no overlap between that and getting irresponsibly drunk in public.”

An ache pools at the pit of my stomach. I wasn’t partying in public, not exactly. Lou’s bodyguard was there, confiscating phones. The Orbital party was cordoned off; the only peopleallowed in were connected with racing—insiders who aren’t supposed to rat their peers out—except I’m clearly not a peer to them.

Hazy brownout memories drift back—Grayson shouting obscenities at the top of his lungs while Pat holds him back from getting into a fight with the bartender; Sasha admitting he once purposely crashed into a competitor in karting during a game of Never Have I Ever—I wasn’t the only one who behaved badly or let my guard down that night. I was just the one whose picture ended up all over the tabloids.

I don’t know what hurts more—that I never really belonged after all or that for a fleeting moment, I thought I did.

“I screwed up, okay? I didn’t realize.” And even if I did, I’d I thought I meant more to Orbital. All the female-empowerment campaigns, the endless handshaking with sponsors—it all turned out to be just as surface layer as I’d thought all along.

“You’re not fourteen anymore. This isn’t junior karting.” Mom’s face gets all blotchy. “How many times have I said, ‘If you can’t stand the heat, then get out of the kitchen’?”

“I’vebeenstanding the heat. All I wanted was to be in the same kitchen as everyone else.” The words come out fast and furious. “And you made it so hard.”

“I made it hard? What have I ever done, other than throw layups at you?”

I’m so mad I don’t even stop to correct her shoddy sports analogy. “I just wanted to race, but you sucked all the funout of it. I could barely go a day without you making me do something for ‘content.’ I haven’t looked at a pint of Ben & Jerry’s since we’ve been in England.” My voice catches, and I have to swallow before I can go on. “It was already so tough, Mom. Why did you have to make it tougher?”

Mom’s lips flatten. A single tear slides down her cheek.

I’m eleven years old again, coming home from school. The house is a mess, half the things in Dad’s office are gone, the other haphazardly littered everywhere. Mom sits on the Persian rug in the living room, the first and last time I see her cry.

Until today.

A dam cracks inside me. Everything I haven’t been able to weep over the last few hours comes flooding out. I mourn for my lost career, relationships, friendships. As I’m gasping for breath, Mom’s hand, cool and reassuring, smooths my back. She leans in to hug me, and she’s sobbing too. Our tears mingle and mix until I can no longer tell whose are whose.

I don’t know how long we cry for. We sit on the rug and Mom squeezes my hand, letting me hunch against her until the sky goes from afternoon bright to twilight gold.

“How’d you know to come here so soon, anyway?” My voice is scratchy after so much bawling.

“The British Airways charge came through on my credit card alerts.” Mom drops a kiss on the top of my head.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper. For the last-minute flightthat cost well over a grand. For burning down my dreams—and her dreams too. “I ruined it for us.”

“Maybe it’s for the better.” Mom assesses the living room, from the rumpled throw blanket to the half-packed suitcase to the discard pile filled with memorabilia. “Europe has been a lot—dealing with these people, this whole world. I’m not sure I’ll miss it.”

My mouth drops. “I thought you loved being my momager.”

“I love watching you forge ahead, helping you play the game with all the know-how I didn’t have at your age.” She slides her right arm around me, cocooning me like I’m eight years old again. “I can’t believe they hung you out to dry like that. I thought the world was moving forward, but…” She sighs.

“You actually believe in the rah-rah crap?” My brain isn’t equipped to handle this. My opportunistic never-say-no-to-a-sponsor mother has been authentic this entire time. “It’s not just marketing?”

“I worked in Big Law. No matter how many hours I billed, how many cases I saved, I never got the same recognition as the ex–lacrosse players.” Bitterness creeps into her voice, a tone I’ve only heard her use when she talks about Dad.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I screwed it all up.” I let myself down, let Roz down, let Mom down.

“No. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I got carried away and pushed you so hard. I used to tell myself I would never turn into one of those tiger mothers. I thought I was so forward-thinking whenI let your father take you to kart races instead of violin lessons.” She gives a harsh laugh. “Joke’s on me.”

“I wanted this, though.” More than anything in the world. Would have traded permanent world peace and god knows what else for the chance to race in Formula 1. Mom backed me in the way she thought best, and I wanted to go about doing things the way I wanted. But maybe that doesn’t mean we haven’t been playing on the same team all along.

“I wanted it for you. And, well, for me too. I have to say, I loved living here with you, watching you win. No matter what, I’m so proud of what you’ve accomplished. You had those Europeans eating out of the palm of your hand.”