Page 13 of Double Apex

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: I am an ass

The heading says it all. Please accept my apology. The comment was uncalled for.

My hands are poised above the keyboard as I consider whether to include more. I type the words to see how they look, to enjoy the relief of freeing them from my fingertips.

But I think I may be correct. If so, that’s a shame. You are fierce and brilliant and lovely, and you deserve every passion.

I immediately delete that and try a different kind of candor.

I am poor at apologies. I was sensitive and reflective as a child, and my uncle was quite strict. It was my impulse to apologize over every dropped teaspoon, thinking it would spare me his wrath, but I soon learned the abuse was worse if he saw me as weak.

I stop and delete again. Adding my name to the bottom of the initial three sentences, I hit send. In the morning, I find a reply, sent minutes after I fell asleep last night reading Haruki Murakami’sNorwegian Wood.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: You absolutely ARE an ass

All is forgiven if you hit double-digit points again on Sunday.

I wonder if there were secret sentences she typed out and deleted as well.

5

BAHRAIN

PHAEDRA

This isn’t a good morning for Ardelean’s bullshit. I was already half wrecked when I arrived at the track for Saturday qualifying.

My dad is currently getting a CT scan of his brain because the headaches are worse. When he admitted he was having nausea and balance problems, I flipped out and insisted he go to the doctor.

He grew up a Carolina country boy and thinks the way to deal with illness is to ignore it. He’s also worried about rumors reaching the team’s sponsors. It practically took a cattle prod to get him on a flight to Switzerland yesterday, but I did it.

Only Klaus and I know why Mo isn’t here, and the tension is breaking me.

I flip down the mic on my headset. “What the actual fuck is Cos doing?” I rest one hand over my mouth, watching the monitors, brow furrowed.

Yeah, Cosmin appears to be letting Owen Byrne in the Team Easton car slipstream him.

I bend the mic back up.

“Cosmin,” I say. My tone should be enough, but he doesn’t reply.

I glance at Lars. His expression is apprehensive, as if he’s more worried about the tense interaction between Cosmin and me than our driver’s maverick behavior.

“Cosmin,” I repeat, stronger. “Don’tgive Byrne a tow.”

“Copy.”

I wait as they navigate through a chicane and surge back onto the straight, but Cosmin doesn’t shake Byrne. Is he offering his struggling buddy an advantage or just doing this to annoy me?

My jaw hard, I shoot a wide-eyed look over at Klaus, both wanting andnotwanting him to step in and speak to Cosmin over the radio himself. He tends to stay off the comms unless there’s a very serious reason. His face is impassive, but I suspect this is a test. And I’m failing.

---