Page 75 of Double Apex

“Hell,” my dad says, cozying down into his lounge chair with a chuckle. “Klaus started talking about the transition—you as the new owner—the same day I told him I’m sick. It was just a foregone conclusion for him, no question.”

I sink back in my own chair, stunned. Recalling Klaus’s words after Silverstone, I reexamine them:You may soon have big shoes to fill as team owner.

I misunderstood the “may” and assumed it meant team ownership was up in the air. But it’s now clear that Klaus was applying “may” to the “soon”—trying to soften the notion of Mo’s death being close at hand.

Holy shit, I feel like an asshole, suspecting him all these months.

“K-Dog’s in your corner, chickadee,” my dad says, reaching to give my hand a squeeze and closing his eyes, the matter settled. “He’s your first mate. He’ll steer the ship all you need, but you’ll be Emerald’s captain.”

It’s Saturday night, and the German Grand Prix starts at nine Sunday morning, our time. Mo and I are going to stream itlive, and I know any time there’s a flash of the pit wall—Lars sitting in my place—or a shot of Cosmin’s intense eyes staring out from his helmet during the prerace coverage, I’m going to want to scream.

I’m still having insomnia, even though the jet lag is far behind me two weeks after arriving in North Carolina. Chalk it up to grief over both DadandCosmin.

Cos and I saw each other in two remote meetings last week—exchanging coolly polite hellos—and Klaus later told me he wanted to relieve me of all work duties through the F1 summer break in August.

The day after the last meeting, Cosmin texted a heart emoji to me. I wanted to fill the screen with hearts back, but eventually went with a squid emoji, because squid are funny. I have no clue what I was trying to say—I panicked. I haven’t heard from him since.

It’s late Saturday night, and I’m sitting in bed staring at Duolingo on my phone. I’ve been doing lessons for three hours now, and if I ever happen to find myself in a Bucharest farmer’s market, I’m all set—the emphasis on produce in this app is disproportionate.

I just wanted to hear the sound of the language—though it’s not like I’m rubbing one out to it or anything. What started as curiosity hours ago has turned into a compulsion, as if acquiringmore wordswill heal my aching heart. The “gamification” is sinister—I’m chasing points like a lab rat pressing a lever for cocaine.

In the adjacent room, Aislinn’s voice has been droning onfor an hour on a phone call that launched with affectionate tones and giggles, then went off the rails. For the past fifteen minutes, my tinny Romanian recordings ofThe tall woman has an apple and a potatohave been punctuated with tense outbursts from Linn.

I hear a thump against our adjoining wall, followed by what’s definitely crying. I set my phone down, listening to the muted sobs. My father’s words come back to me:She needs you more’n I reckon you know.

Ugh, fine. I’ll give it a shot.

I stand on the bed, walk across it, hop down, then go out to the hallway, listening before tapping cautiously at the door.

After a pause, Aislinn calls out, “Mama?”

I stick my head in. “No such luck, Chuck. Just me.”

“What do you want?” she demands, swiping her blond hair out of her face.

I try to lighten the mood with an absolutely terrible Jimmy Stewart impression—we used to watchIt’s a Wonderful Lifeevery year, and I know she’ll recognize the quote.

“Me? Nothing,” I drawl, hands in the pockets of my pajama pants as I saunter in like George Bailey, looking around. “I just came in to get warm.”

“Hilarious.”

I pick up her phone—she must’ve thrown it hard, because the screen has a crack—and plop down on her bed, handing it over.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

“Not particularly.” She scowls at the damaged screen and sets the phone face down on the night table.

Yep, this was a bad idea.

I pop back to my feet. “All righty. See you at breakfast.”

It’s not a power move—I just genuinely have no clue what to do with her rebuff. But as I cross to the door, she calls, “Phae, wait.” She points at the foot of the bed. “Sit.”

I put my hands into a begging-dog pose. “I can balance a Milk-Bone on my nose too,” I snark, going to perch cross-legged on the bed.

“Oh, eff off.”

“Is this the kind of conversation that requires snacks? That’s what they do in the movies. Should we be eating cookie dough straight outta the tube?”

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