Page 12 of Until The Lights Go Out

“Are you even listening to me, Theodore?” My attention waned back to him. His clouded gray-blue eyes I had inherited. They looked so harsh and cold. So unlike my brother’s and my mother’s eyes. I wished I was with them instead. Every damn day I did. But Dad picked us up and moved us from Ireland to England to take this whole racing business seriously. To race with the groups that were bound for Formula One.

“Yes, sir,” I replied quietly. I imagined my mom were here instead, rather than left behind in Ireland with my brother. She would love seeing a girl win a race—especially one in pink bows. She would smile that warm, proud smile of hers, crouch down beside me, and squeeze my shoulder.

You did amazing, sweetheart. And suddenly losing wouldn’t have felt so heavy.

Sebastian would probably tease me endlessly—losing to a girl and all—but there would be laughter in it. Not this tight, suffocating silence.

“You better start taking this seriously, boy.” He stepped closer, towering over me. “I have given up everything for you to have this.” His mouth twisted the way it always did when he was angry, lips pulling tight over his teeth. The lines around his eyes deepened, turning them darker, stormier. Lifeless. Over the past five years my father stopped being my father and became my coach. Everything was racing this and racing that. Every mistake came with the same reminders: how much he had sacrificed, how far he had moved us, how everything depended on me making it to Formula One.

“I’ll do better,” I replied, steeling my expression, not letting the annoyance bleed through. I placed second. Second place wasn’t a failure. It had been a good race. I hit every mark we talked about. My braking points were perfect. My line through the final chicane was exactly how we practiced it. But none of that mattered.

Not unless I was standing on the top step of the podium, holding the biggest trophy.

That was the only time my father smiled.

Then he would cheer, take my picture to post and tell all his friends. Brag about me at dinners and lunches and events. I craved that more and more as every race passed. I wanted to earn that proud look on his face. So I worked and worked to do better, to be better, and to win. To make him proud.

“Good,” he said sharply, then he jerked his chin toward the far side of the paddock. “Pay that girl no mind. Don’t speak to her,” his voice dropped dismissively. “She’s not worth your time.”

I glanced over his shoulder before I could stop myself. Across the paddock, the girl with the red hair was standing on the podium taking photos, her own father smiling and laughing with her. Pink ribbons bounced in the wind as she lifted the trophy over her head.

And she looked happier than anyone I had ever seen.

The next race was only three days later.

Morning light spilled across the track in long, blinding streaks, filtering through the stretched canvas shade above the viewing stands. The fabric snapped softly in the breeze, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow over the rows of metal benches where parents and siblings gathered with coffee cups and folding chairs. It reminded me vaguely of the small stands at Sebastian’s rugby field, only louder.

Engines whined as the younger karting group tore around the track, the high-pitched buzz echoing off the barriers. The smell of gasoline hung thick in the air, mixing with hot rubber and the faint sweetness from the snack stand nearby.

I walked beside my father through the mini paddock, my helmet tucked under one arm. Dust kicked up around my boots as I dragged my feet through the dirt. My father shot me a sharp look.

“Head high, Theo,” he said crisply. “You will be a winner today. Winners don’t drag their feet.”

I straightened immediately. “Yes, sir.”

The disappointment still washed over me like cold water. I didn’t want to be a constant disappointment. I just didn’t know how not to be.

A blur of pink suddenly flew past us, and with it, the faint scent of strawberries.

“Dad! They have frozen yogurt at the stand!”

The girl’s voice rang across the paddock as she ran by, nearly colliding with a large man who had to be her father. She skidded to a stop in front of him, waving a crumpled slip of paper in the air like a victory flag. She bounced on the balls of her feet, grinning so wide it looked like her whole face lit up.

I couldn’t help staring.

Her red hair flashed bright in the sunlight, pulled into a long braid that swung wildly behind her. It was the same girl who won the last race, I slowly realized. A pink ribbon was tied at the end, the bow slightly crooked. She looked…ridiculously cheerful. Not like someone about to race, and yet a white race suit hung off her hips, bright pink and orange stripes on the side.

I slowed without realizing it.

“Theodore.” My father had already turned around, arms crossed. “Hurry up.”

I scrambled forward.

“Focus, Theo,” my father said as I zipped up my racing suit. “The third turn⁠—”

“Don’t oversteer or I’ll clip the edge like Mathews did last season,” I finished automatically.

My father had made me study that race footage at least twenty times. Jonah Mathews had misjudged the corner, locked up, and slammed the barrier. The video had become some kind of cautionary tale in our house.