Page 32 of Handle Me

“If he’s worried about your times, shouldn’t you practice more?”

“Probably in most sports,” I admitted. “But in racing, it means your flow is off.”

“Flow?” she repeated.

How the fuck was I supposed to explain flow to someone who had never driven? All I could do was try. “It’s like you’re one with the car. You don’t even think about taking a turn or braking or giving it more gas. You don’t have to because you’re the machine.”

“Wow.” She blinked a couple of times. “That sounds intense.”

“It is, but it isn’t. I guess it’s hard to explain.”

“I think I get it,” she said slowly. “So, what now? You just take a break for a few days?”

I chuckled.

“Longer?”

“Who knows?” I shrugged, letting myself face the fear I’d had since the moment Wilkes had called me out this afternoon. “Some drivers never get it back.”

“Was it the accident?” She sounded so genuinely concerned I didn’t mind talking about it.

“I don’t know. I can’t really figure out what’s what anymore.”

She nodded. “A few years ago, when everyone found out who my sister was dating, I felt this insane pressure to be as interesting or relevant or important.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I guess because I was always the driven one. My mother would say Lola is going places, and Clara is going to save the world. When she met Alexander, it felt like I was just stuck. I was just Clara Bishop’s kid sister. Suddenly, I was in magazines, and everyone wanted to know who I was dating or what I wearing, but only because of her. Not because of any of the things that I had worked for. It’s one of the reasons I got into business with Belle. I just wanted something where I could fade into the background. After all those years of trying to be somebody, I didn’t get to pick out who the world decided I was.”

Something cracked open in my chest as she spoke, and what spilled out shook me. It was like she was in my head. Suddenly, I saw behind the bossy persona and perfect appearance. Lola was trying just as hard to live up to all their expectations, knowing none of them would notice unless she failed. She was just like me. She wanted exactly what I wanted. “Lola,” I said in a low voice, “I see you.”

She smiled, biting her lip in confusion.

“I see you,” I repeated. “Not what you are for them, but who you want to be—and, stealing my socks aside, I like what I see.”

She was quiet for a minute as if waiting for me to make a joke about going to bed together. I just waited, staring into her eyes, hoping she would believe me. I knew how much she needed that because I did, too. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“Every fucking word,” I muttered.

She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the waiter appeared. Why did servers always sense the worst possible time to interrupt someone? Were they trained to do that? Neither of us looked up at him.

“How were the oysters?” he asked, oblivious to the tension straining the air between us.

“Perfect,” Lola murmured. She picked her napkin up and laid it on the table meaningfully. “Unfortunately, we have to go.”

“Your main course should be out any moment,” he said apologetically.

“Why don’t you and some of the others enjoy it?” I suggested, tossing a couple hundred quid on the table. “We have to go.”

He stared at the money and cleared his throat anxiously. Wringing his hands, he asked, “Was there a problem with the oysters?”

“No.” Lola smiled at me like he wasn’t even standing there. “We decided to skip to dessert.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

LOLA

As far as I could tell, I’d either lost my mind or given up. But something about what Anders said made sense to me. It also had sent the desire I’d tried to keep under control into overdrive. I didn’t really care that it was a terrible idea. I didn’t care this was going to complicate things. I just wanted to be seen.