I wanted freedom in my life, and now all I want is for this girl to love me.

I grab the stuff for my duffel and shove them in, then stop, clenching my hands.

I slam my fist into the table. “FUCK!”

I clench my jaw; my pride sore for having to ask, even my dad. I’m a guy who likes to need no one. I like doing my things, feeling good. Feeling this low and worthless isn’t me. So I know after a whole night, I’m screwed.

I feel animal.

I stroke my hand across my hair and dial the only number I dial at times like this.

“Dad.”

I can tell he knows it’s on. There’s a silence, and he says, “I’ll get the pilots ready. Be there tonight. Italy. Right?”

“Right.”

“Son?”

I pause on the line.

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get there.”

I just hang up, calculating how far the nearest body of water is, trying to stop thinking of how much I want to tie an anchor on my feet and throw myself in.

It’s like a switch goes off, and death seems better, just less of a hassle, death is peace, life is misery.

I growl and grab my keys and head to my rental, drive to the hospital, my phone ringing off the hook.

It’s the Heyworths.

I don’t want to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. I power off my phone, driving and turning on the music. Fall Out Boy has another good one, it’s called Jet Pack Blues, where the lady on the road tempts him to come home.

Lana

Love me back …

I shower early in the morning for practice for the Italian Grand Prix, then slip on my jeans and my team T-shirt. I want to do something pretty with my hair, so I blow-dry it and let it down, then I add some lipstick and look at myself again.

“Tell him,” I tell myself. Tell him how you feel, I think, and I’m so determined to tell him that I even smile at myself in contentment as I head to the track.

“Where’s Tate?” Drake asks when I arrive and anxiously scan our tent for the familiar sight of Racer in his Nomex suit.

“I don’t know.” I start in surprise. “He’s not here?”

“Not here. Not in his room,” Clay says in obvious worry and puzzlement.

“What?” I ask, and I grab my cell and dial … only to go directly to voicemail.

“We’ve already left a dozen messages, don’t even bother,” Clay says, sighing and plopping down on a chair.

I still dial again. Get voicemail.

“Hey. It’s Lana. Um, Alana,” I try to make light of it. “Call me?”

An hour later, I’m with my heart in my throat. Three hours later, there’s a black hole in my life where Racer used to be. All I know is that he’s gone and that my stomach is in knots because I sense, deep down, that he needs me. That he’s proud, that it’ll cost him everything to tell me that he needs me. All I know is that I’m lost without him, and that the last time I remembered this feeling was the day they told me my dad had cancer and was refusing treatment.

Racer

I hear him arrive sometime early morning.

I’m already checked in, getting shit up my veins. The doctor treating me called my doctor in St. Pete, and they’re now giving me the same treatment they did last time to try level me out.

When I got diagnosed, worst thing was the frustration and guilt my dad battled with. I, on the other hand, battled with the shit-as-fuck feeling of living up to be a complete disappointment. My dad went black—that’s what we call it when he gets triggered, because his eyes, blue like mine, change in color. Weird, I know, but possible. He’s proof of it.

My mom was worried, but my dad recovered fast. He kept saying, “You don’t have it. You fucking don’t, all right?”

I didn’t want to say, “Are you fucking deaf?! The doctors just confirmed it.”

“He’s in denial, he’ll come around, Racer,” Iris said when she came to visit.

I didn’t reply to that.

“Do you think I’ll get it someday too?” she asked me, worried.

“No,” I immediately growled, pressing her to my chest and promising her, “I’ve got it for the both of us, okay? Never think that. You’re perfect.”

Now my dad steps into the room—quiet, like he always is.

Our eyes meet, and his jaw tightens.

We say nothing.

He pulls up a chair by the bed.

I lie here on this bed, battling a battle I’m going to probably face a hundred times in my lifetime.

“It’s your phone. Do you want me to take it.”

“No. I don’t want her here.”

My voice is low and rough, and my father digests that for a moment.

“I had a team to watch out for me when I was off meds. You’re out here on your own, and you shouldn’t be. You don’t have to go this alone. That’s what they’re there for. Don’t go off your meds, Racer.” He regards me in frustration, his voice firm. “Don’t let yourself climb that high and you’ll hopefully prevent ever hitting this low again. You’ve got this, son. I know you do. You’re too stubborn and too proud and too damn special. You have a lot to do—and I can’t wait to fucking watch you do it.”

I’m silent for a moment.

“Fuck you,” I say. “Fuck you for giving me this shit.”

Dad just stares at me as I say the words I’ve always wanted to say out loud.

He leans forward and levels his gaze on me.

“I gave you fucking life. It’s up to you to get the rest of what you want. So, what do you want, Racer? Do you want this championship? Do you want the girl? Do you want to get fucking better? Do you want to beat this? John?”

“Stop calling me John.”

“Stop wanting to be some other guy, Racer. A simple guy. Anyone but you. Own your name. Go fucking get it. Racer. Fucking. Tate. My son. Huh? Or is it John?”

He slaps my cheek part gently and part not. “Is it John?”

“Racer Fucking Tate, Dad.”

“Good. OWN it. Get this thing.”

He slams his fist into the chair, then stares at me and exhales when I give him nothing. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Don’t say anything.”

“You’re right, not good with words. But I’ll help you get better. I know what you need.”

Lana

He didn’t show up at the track, and now it’s evening and I’m at my hotel room, unable to eat or sleep or do anything at all.

I’m sitting next to my phone, waiting for a call, jumping every time it vibrates as my brothers keep asking “Any news?” on the family chat group.

I read a third message, from Adrian, and shake my head vehemently.

“No,” I type, when there’s a knock on the door.

I leap to my feet and head over, peering through the peephole and my heart leaps when I see a pair of familiar blue eyes.

I swing the door open, almost gasping Racer’s name when I find myself staring up into his father’s eyes rather than his.

“Lana.”

Racer’s dad is at my door. What is he doing in Italy?

Oh god.

The walls of my stomach collapse inside of me. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay. He’s pulling through.”

I’m trembling all over as we stare at each other. “I want to see him,” I say.

“Good.” He regards me for a moment. “He needs you.”

I’ve never moved so fast. “Let me get my room key.”

He drives in silence to the hospital, and I’m unnerved by how quiet his dad is until he speaks.

“He’ll try to push you away. Fair warning.” He shoots me a cautious look.

“I don’t care. I want to see him,” I say stubbornly. But I want more than that. I want to be there for him. He’s my boy and he needs me, and if he’s too proud to say that he needs me, I don’t care. I’ll be there for him anyway.

“Coping mechanism.” His dad looks at me. “We’ve been through this before.”

“He warned me about it,” I admit quietly, staring out the window, only seeing Racer. Racer in his mustang, Racer in Kelsey, in Dolly, Racer in me. Racer everywhere. Racer in this world. Racer in my mind. Racer in my fucking heart.