Page 61 of Until The Lights Go Out

MAISEY | 17 YEARS OLD

DAY OF THE CRASH - 10 YEARS AGO - 8:00 A.M.

“You’re gonna smoke his ass.” Serena beamed at me an hour before the race, referring to my nemesis: Theo Bauer. It was always me and him on the podium. It was slightly infuriating. Serena knew all about him, and our history of course, as any best friend would. Her bright blonde hair was twisted into two long braids, lone front pieces pulled out and framing her face, one of those fabric headbands she loved holding the rest back, a signature Serena look. I rolled my eyes, nervously brushing back my own hair, which was braided into one short braid down my neck, one Serena had just finished doing. Her knee nudged mine.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” she asked, looking worried.

“Sorry. I’m good, thoughts are just loud today,” I admitted.

“Bad thoughts?” she asked, turning her head. I bristled at the question. I hadn’t told her about how sometimes everything felt too heavy and big, that the bad thoughts took over like angry clouds in my mind and I couldn’t see anything else. But Serena never missed anything, and while it wasn’t outright said, I was pretty sure she put the pieces together.

“Yeah, sometimes.” I looked up, forcing a small smile. “Just gotta switch the channel to racing up there in my head. Then it’s all good.” I tried to brush it off, like it wasn’t anything at all. Serena caught my eye and tapped my cheek playfully.

“Only thoughts are racing, Andrews! Only thoughts!” She stood up, holding out her hands. “Come on, shake it out.” I was immediately overwhelmed with nostalgia at the phrase. Serena and I had danced our anxious energy out before races since we met years ago. She walked right up to me before a race, stuck her hand out and said, “Hey, I’m Serena, and as the only two girls here, we’re going to be best friends and kick those boys’ butts, kay?” We’d been practically tied at the hip since then.

“Serena, we are not little kids anymore!” I argued. I was met with an ever-dramatic roll of her eyes. Since I had known her, the go-to for getting rid of bad feelings or nerves was to shake it out, crank some guilty-pleasure song, and dance until the laughter took over and the big feelings floated away. I didn’t think these ones would float away like others used to, but Serena had a mischievous smile on her bright face, and she was already moving to stand up and dance.

“Shake it out, bitch!” she shouted at me and started jumping, tugging my arms right along with her. I couldn’t help the bubble of laughter that came out at the way she dragged me from my seated position until I started jumping and dancing with her. The deep stomach laughs were contagious, making her laugh harder and snort, which made me wheeze with happy tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.

“You got this,” she said before we parted ways. “Smoke his ass!” she added, waving and walking toward her own team’s garage.

“Hey, pumpkin,” my dad greeted me after some prep with my team. I was in my race suit now, slipping my arms into the white sleeves. A pink helmet sat next to me on the table, ready to be placed on.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, leaning into him as he hugged me from the side.

“Feeling good?” he asked.

“Yep!” I answered quickly, half-convincing myself of it. I thought about the letter in my bag, tucked tightly at the bottom of the inside pocket.

Red,

I don’t really know how to start this without sounding dramatic, so I’m just going to say it. I don’t think I want to do this anymore. And before you roll your eyes at me and call me an idiot—I know. I know how that sounds. I’ve been doing this my whole life. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. It’s the thing everyone expects from me. It’s…everything. That’s kind of the problem.

Do you remember that night on the hill when you told me about the big sad feelings? How you said it felt like everything was pressing in on you at once—like your chest was too tight and the world was too loud and you couldn’t breathe right, even though nothing was technically wrong? I didn’t really get it then. I tried to. I remember nodding and pretending I understood, but I didn’t, not really at that time, anyway. I think I do now. That’s what it feels like in the car sometimes. Not every time. Not when it’s good. When it’s good, it’s the only place in the world that makes sense. It’s quiet in a way nothing else is. Like, everything lines up exactly how it’s supposed to, and I know where I am and what I’m doing and who I am. But when it’s bad…it’s like that feeling you described: like everything is closing in, like I can’t get enough air in my lungs even though I’m breathing, like one wrong move and it will all come crashing down and I won’t be able to stop it. And the worst part is—I still get back in. Every time.

I don’t know if that makes me brave or just stupid. Everyone keeps telling me this is what I’m meant for, that this is the dream. But there’s so much pressure, sometimes I wish I could’ve been a normal kid who played a normal sport a normal amount. Dad is always saying I’m not doing enough, not focused enough or good enough. I don’t think he’d even recognize me without racing.I don’t think he realizes that I’m not just a driver but also his damn kid. But honestly, I don’t think I would know who I am without it either. That’s the part I don’t know what to do with.

Because if I stop—if I walk away—then what am I? Just some guy who used to be kinda good at something but never actually “made it”?

I don’t have a backup plan, Red. I don’t have anything else. No other thing that makes sense like this does when it’s good. But I also don’t know how long I can keep doing it when it feels like that—like I’m suffocating or seconds away from losing control.

I haven’t told anyone this. Not Seb. Definitely not my dad. They wouldn’t get it. Or maybe they would, and that’s worse. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I never raced at all. What would life be like? I think I still would have found you in that life.

You’re the only person I can say this to without feeling like I’m completely losing it. So…yeah. I don’t know what I’m asking for here. Advice, maybe? Or just for you to tell me I’m not insane. Or maybe I just wanted someone else to know. Because if I keep it in my own head, it feels too loud.

— T

The letter sat heavy in my pocket till I shoved it back into my bag. Part of me wished I hadn’t read it at all.

I had to get my head straight. There was no room for distraction on the track. That was something my dad had reminded me of weekly since I first got into a kart. It was just me and the road.

19

THEO | 18 YEARS OLD

DAY OF THE CRASH - 10 YEARS AGO - 8:00 A.M.

“What the fuck are these?” My father’s voice seethed at the doorway of the team’s private rooms. It was low, sharp, and controlled in a way that was always worse than shouting. In his hands were the letters. Her letters. Pages I’d folded and refolded until the creases were soft, until the ink felt like something I could hold onto. Now they were crumpled beyond recognition.