Page 90 of Double Apex

“Speaking,” I supply quietly.

She points sideways at me without looking. “Ding ding ding!Winner!” Shaking her head with a wry laugh, she adds, “And also listening. I’m shit at talking and listening—the symbolism couldn’t be more fucking apt.”

There are many things I wish to say. But with a defeating weight, the reality of our situation crushes them out of me. It doesn’t matter that we were improving these skills, “practicing” with each other, and it doesn’t matter that we fell in love by pretending. The die has been cast, and we must now move on.

“It didn’t make me a very good girlfriend, Cos. But I’m going to be a good owner. It’s what Mo wanted, and he obviously expected me to make sacrifices for it. Which is why…” She throws a pained glance my way.

“Please, tell me.”

Her hands tighten on the steering wheel, the knuckles going pale.

“I need you to get used to Lars as your race engineer. I shouldn’t be back on the pit wall. I’ll be working as anon-trackside developmental engineer next season. Unless, uh,circumstancesnecessitate a more business-focused role as owner. In which case I’d be working from the US offices.”

The boundaries have been drawn. And what hurts me the most, perhaps, is that Phaedra was the one to choose them. The distance between us will only increase.

I reach for her hand and squeeze it briefly. “I understand.”

She starts to squeeze back just as I’m pulling away. I almost take her hand again, but don’t. Our timing seems destined to be wrong in every respect.

For the next mile we ride in silence, pretending to examine the scenery while reflecting on the futility of our situation. Our feelings for each other are still there—I doubt even Phaedra would deny it, however pragmatic she’s trying to appear—and like the aftermath of a flood, the landscape cannot instantly revert to what it was. Friendship will take time.

The diner is everything I hoped it would be when I looked it up online this morning, and for a moment after we’ve parked, all I can do is stare.

“Jesus, Ardelean,” Phaedra teases. “You look like a kid who’s spied Santa from across the mall and is going to sit on his lap for the first time. It’s like…” She leans back with an assessing squint. “A combination of starstruck and disbelief and greed.”

I angle an impish smile at her. “You know me too well.”

As I begin to open my door, Phaedra does too, and I lay a hand on her shoulder.

“Please wait—allow me. I want to do this exactly how I imagined.”

Her eyebrows lift in perplexity, but she pulls her door closed. I get out and walk around the huge car, then open her door, extending a hand. Her eyes glint with amusement as she pauses before accepting. I tuck her fingers into the crook of my elbow and lead her to the front door of the diner, opening it to usher her through.

A middle-aged woman behind the counter pivots to call through the service window, “Carl! It’s the guy. The one you showed me the picture of.”

A sturdy man with a mustache hurries from the kitchen.

“I’ll be smoked,” he says. Steering the woman our way, he offers a hand to shake. “Carl and Debbie Moore. Real honored to make your lunch today.” He points one thumb over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Found a basket and the right kind of blanket and everything.”

His wife pinches her lips into a line. “You ‘found’ it? In my craft room, along with one of my best—”

He stops her with a squeeze. “For athousand-dollar lunch, baby, we can buy another basket for your knitting, and a whole stack of plaid blankets.” He gives us a toothy smile. “She don’t mind—honest.”

“Would you like a pass to the race on Sunday?” Phaedra offers.

The man’s eyes go wide as the woman’s narrow. He’s about to reply when his wife cuts in, “We have to keep this place humming on weekends, but thank you kindly.”

Phaedra looks at me, and I know exactly what she’s thinking.

“How much does your restaurant typically make on a Sunday?” I ask.

The woman’s expression softens. “Aw, just listen to that pretty accent. Where’d you say you’re from? You sound Eye-talian.”

“Romania,” I tell her. “But you have a fine ear; the languages are a bit similar.”

The man leans toward his wife. “Deb, we don’t—”

She shushes him. “On a busy Sunday, we can make twelve hundred,” she tells me.

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