Page 129 of Until The Lights Go Out

She laughed. “Theo was the worst!”

“No one is surprised, but we were quite the rivals back then. Younger me couldn’t stand not winning.”

“And having your ass kicked by a girl.” She smirked. “You hated losing to a girl.”

“I hated losing to anyone.”

“Sure.”

“I am an equal-opportunity sore loser. It was a damn pleasure to lose to you. Shit, sorry, we probably can’t curse on this?”

She laughed harder this time, the tension easing from her shoulders. “It’s okay, I can edit it out.”

“Okay good, sorry I will behave from here on out. Pinky promise,” I said, holding out my pinky. Maisey blushed at the motion but interlocked our fingers. I pushed out my foot, letting it hit her own, the small touch to tell her she could do this.

“We’ve actually known each other since karting,” she continued.

“We’ve got history, Maisey baby.”

“That we do.” She looked back toward the camera. The smile slowly faded. “Yesterday was the anniversary of a day that changed the entire trajectory of my life.” She told the story gently. How, after the crash, there were new rules implemented in lower-tier racing for more safety. Tears were welling in her eyes by the end, making my heart twist in pain for her. She talked about the race, the crash and the recovery. Learning how to walk again. Having her entire identity ripped away almost overnight.How she’d received a call to come back to Formula One as a presenter and strategic analyst commentator and felt like she was finally home again. By the time she finished, tears shimmered in her eyes.

Without thinking, I reached over. Our fingers intertwined just outside the camera frame. She squeezed my hand once, then twice.

Grounding herself.

Grounding me.

“Recovering from something like that…” she said quietly “…isn’t linear.” Her eyes stayed on the camera. “Some years, I barely notice the anniversary.” A small shrug. “Some years”—she looked out toward the harbor—“I can’t get out of bed.” Silence settled between us. The breeze stirred her hair. “I’ve lived with depression since I was a teenager, long before the crash.” She swallowed. “I spent years wondering what was wrong with me.” My chest tightened. “I thought maybe everyone else was better at living than I was.” She laughed softly through her tears. “Which sounds ridiculous now.”

“It doesn’t,” I said quietly.

She looked over at me.

“No?”

I shook my head.

“No.”

Her eyes glistened. “I used to feel guilty,” she admitted. “I was living my dream. I was racing professionally. I had incredible people around me, and somehow I still struggled to get through ordinary days.”

She looked back toward the camera.

“If you’ve ever felt guilty for struggling because your life looks good on paper”—she smiled sadly—“you’re not broken. You don’t need to earn the right to ask for help.”

I squeezed her hand tighter.

“Mental health doesn’t care how successful you are,” she continued. “It doesn’t care if you’re an athlete, an engineer, a student, a parent, or someone still figuring life out. It can affect anyone. I felt so alone and different from all the other kids—those who raced and those who didn’t. I was so lucky to have my father guide me through it all in the racing world. The pressure of racing is something that’s hard to explain to anyone outside of this world. It’s something so rewarding, something you work so hard at, give up so much for. Mental health is so important and often overlooked when it comes to athletes.” She looked toward me again. “Theo actually helped me through a lot of it growing up.”

I laughed quietly, shocked by the confession. “Me?”

“Mmhm.”

“No, Red.” She frowned. “You saved me just as much.”

Her eyes searched mine.

“What?”