Page 79 of Double Apex

“When I sought out Grigore in May, it was my intention to blackmail him into giving me money for Vlasia House. Instead, he wept and begged my forgiveness, took this photo from his wallet…” She fixes me with a level gaze. “Then asked me to marry him.”

We stare at each other for a breath, two, three.

“Rica. A sentimental photograph does not negate what he did to you.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t make him a decent man.”

“He’s not. But his money will be mine one day—it’s a condition of my accepting his proposal. I’m owed. And Cosmin,it’s not your place to judge my choice. There will be no discussion. This is final.”

As I turn to focus on the city lights below the window, jaw tense and my chest aching, I imagine Phaedra is with me. I can almost hear her saying,This isn’t your fight, Legs. Shut the fuck up and listen. Do better.

My God, I don’t want to say it, but I must.

“I trust you. I won’t try to stand in your way. But can you love Grigore Lupu, Rica? A man such as that?”

She darkens her phone screen. “I may never love him, but I do love the memory of Iosif. It’s enough.”

24

NORTH CAROLINA

MID-AUGUST, EARLY SEPTEMBER

PHAEDRA

The first seizure is the hardest, at least for the family. We were peacefully watchingDoctor Zhivagoin the living room when Mama asked MoAm I crowding you?because (she later explained) he’d suddenly tensed up, and next thing we knew he was in full-on convulsions and Aislinn was sobbingDaddy! Daddy, no!and Mama was beggingNot yet, Bear—don’t you do this, and I was fumbling with my phone to call 911.

I hadn’t heard Mama call my dad “Bear” since I was a teenager and they were more affectionate, before life on the road started gnawing little holes in their marriage.

There’s a hospice nurse living with us now.

We’re in the middle of the F1 summer break. Mo told me yesterday, in a blithe tone I think he assumes will keep me from being totally shit-scared, that he “just wants to make it ’til Spa”—the Belgian Grand Prix—“and see how our boy does.”

He means Cosmin. Jakob’s a solid driver, but my dad has his hopes pinned on Cosmin more than ever since the podium finish ten days ago. The Spa circuit plays to Cosmin’s strengths—it’s fast and cerebral.

It’d be borderline poetic to have Cosmin win at Spa while we watch, then Mo peacefully drifts off to the great paddock in the sky in his recliner during the post-race interviews, a “big ol’ shit-eatin’ grin” (as he calls it) plastered on his mug.

The idea of him possibly not being here in two weeks is horrifying. Which is why, on a Wednesday night, despite knowing it’s only five in the morning in Romania, I crack and FaceTime Cosmin.

We both start talking at once—I’m dithering apologies for waking him up, and he’s telling me how pleased he is that I’ve called.

He’s beautiful—sleep-rumpled and yawny, with that slightly scratchy morning voice that reminds me immediately of the stellar predawn fucks we had. It’s still dark there, and Cosmin leans to switch on a bedside lamp.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, combing one of those big hands through his disheveled hair. “I’m delighted to hear from you. Though of course I hope it’s not for a tragic reason.”

“Nah, Mo’s still kicking.” I hope I don’t sound callous, butit’s the way my dad phrases it himself. I sigh. “Fuck, I’m really struggling, Cos. Nat can’t be here—she tried to get away from work, but the magazine has her scrambling.”

During the summer break, it’s so-called silly season in Formula 1, when rumors fly and gossip gets hot about changes in upcoming driver lineups for the teams. Reporting on the sport shifts from facts and analysis to TMZ-like back-fence buzz.

“We talk on FaceTime,” I say with a generous tone I don’t really feel, “but…”

He waits a beat. “But,” he states with quiet confidence, “you feel alone, even surrounded by family.”

A melancholy warmth blooms in my chest.How does he seem to know instinctively, always, what’s in my heart and my head?

“Yeah,” I acknowledge in a whisper. “I told Nat I’m glad she can’t be here because, y’know.” I make air quotes with one hand. “Because ‘things are so hectic.’ But I didn’t mean it, and was hoping maybe she’d read between the lines.”

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