Page 92 of Speed Crush

And that word—real—it hits harder than I expect. It floods me with something jagged and strange. Not fear exactly, but something adjacent. A buzz of disbelief, of hope so loud in my chest it feels like my ribs might crack under the weight of it.

This was never in my life plan. No five-year projection included 'a prestigious F1 mentorship offer delivered over fries by my too-handsome boyfriend. And yet here it is. Mine. Tangible. Real.

I think of all the times I’d part-timed at the shop, grease on my hands and a Sharpie tucked behind one ear. How my parents often nudged me toward academia but I'd always be back in the shop, under some hoods.

Even as a Middle School Science teacher, my favorite unit to teach was simple electric motors—letting kids tinker with copper coils and magnets to make things spin. I’d bring in old fan motors and model car parts, challenge them to figure out how circuits worked or why something overheated, and watch their faces light up like they’d just cracked the code to the universe.

It was hands-on, messy, and made them feel like engineers. Maybe it made me feel that way too.

I shudder having these thoughts flash by in my head.

Noah gently touches my left pinky, breaking me from my reverie. He leans in, warm and steady, like he’s anchoring me back to earth. He nods, voice low. “You don’t have to decide now. Personally, I think you'd flourish in the program and love every moment of it. But, ultimately, regardless of what I think, you'd be the one who gets to choose what comes next.”

Later that night, my parents invite Noah in for dinner. When Noah compliments the pot roast, Mack grunts something about not letting a pretty face sway his opinion, but he still gives Noah the bigger helping. Vicky just grins and whispers loudly, "F1 charmers are a real menace—just ask your daughter."

I nearly spit out my drink. 'Mom!'

Noah just grins like he's won pole position at Monaco. 'It's true,' he admits, helping himself to more potatoes. “Charm 101 comes right after G-Force Survival. Mandatory for F1 heartthrobs.”

When I'm finally ready to tell them about the internship, my parents both go quiet.

Then Mom slips into full Mama Bear mode—eyes sharp and steady, hands warm on mine, familiar in a way that makes me feel both sixteen again. She glances at Noah, then locks eyes with me, her voice gentle but unshakable. “Are you doing this becauseyouwant it, baby girl? Not just because you love him?”

“I do want it,” I say quietly. “I think I’ve always wanted something like this. I just never thought it was possible.”

Dad nods and tries to clear his throat, weighing my words. Then, he turns to Noah, and looks him dead in the eye. “You’ll watch out for her?”

Noah doesn’t flinch. “Every minute I can.”

“Good. Because she’s got more grit than most boys I’ve ever trained—but she still deserves someone who’ll remind her she can do anything she damn well pleases.”

Those words hit something deep in my chest, unexpected and warm. My throat tightens with a mix of emotion I can't quite name—gratitude, disbelief, love.

I glance at Noah, then back at my parents, and I nod. It feels like something old settling into place. Like maybe, just maybe, everyone here believes in me more than I ever dreamed.

That night, after everyone’s gone to bed, Noah and I sit in the den, firelight flickering over the old photo frames on the mantle.

“I want this,” I whisper. “For me.”

But even as I say it, a ripple of guilt catches in my chest.

Because wanting never came easy.

Not for someone like me—left behind as a baby, shown in clear action that I wasn’t wanted, mere days into my life.”

And yet… I was given everything.A warm home. Two parents who chose me. A town that wrapped me up in love and second chances.So I learned to be grateful. To stay quiet and useful.To take only what was offered—and never ask for more.Because what if I said yes to something this big—something just for me—and then it gets taken away?Because life has a cruel way of punishing people who hope too loudly. Because wanting means risking.And risk means I could lose again.Be left again.

And now, being told that Icanwant more—be more—it’s almost impossible to comprehend.

I look down at Noah’s hand, clasping over mine so lovingly.

I take a deep breath that’s too shaky to hold before I try my best to express the turmoil I'm feeling inside.

“Wanting hasn’t always been safe for me,” I say softly. “I already have so much and reaching for more meant risking disappointment.”

Noah doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush in to fix it.

I feel the tension coiled in his hand—his thumb still, his breathing shallow—as if he's holding space for whatever truth I’m about to give him.

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