Page 51 of The Pumpkin Spice Proposal
“Is there?” He pulled out his phone, swiped to a photo. “Tell me this looks like playing.”
It was from the Halloween parade—Olivia perched on my shoulders, her cardboard racecar costume slightly askew, both of us grinning at something Lily had said. In the background, I could see other families, other fathers with their children. We looked just like them.
We looked real.
“That’s not acting,” Ben continued. “That’s you being happy. Actually, genuinely happy. When’s the last time you looked like that before you came here?”
I couldn’t remember. Maybe never.
“Happy doesn’t pay the mortgage, Ben. Happy doesn’t fix the fact that my entire identity was built around going three hundred kilometers per hour in circles.”
“No, but it’s a start.” He pocketed his phone. “Want to know what I think your real problem is?”
“Not particularly, but I’m sure you’ll tell me, anyway.”
“You’re so used to your father telling you what success looks like that you can’t see it when it’s sitting right in front of you.”
He gestured around the cottage. “This isn’t success—running back to a world that chewed you up and spat you out, taking a job just to prove you’re still relevant.”
“It’s not about him?—”
“Bullshit.” The profanity sounded strange in Ben’s usually diplomatic mouth. “You’ve been chasing Alessandro’s approval since you were five years old. First with karting, then F1, now this. When does it end, Mario? When do you get to choose whatyouwant?”
“When I prove I’m not a washout.”
“To whom?” Ben stepped closer. “Him? The racing press? The voices in your head that sound suspiciously like your old man?” He paused.
“Because from where I’m standing, walking away from two people who love you exactly as you are—grumpy morning face and terrible bedside manner included—that’s the only failure I see.”
“Lily doesn’t love me. We had a deal?—”
“Stop.” His voice cracked like a whip. “Just stop. I saw her face at that gala, Mario. That wasn’t contract negotiation heartbreak. That was ‘the person I love just chose his career over me’ heartbreak. The ugly, devastating kind that leaves scars.”
The words settled between us like a challenge.
“Even if that’s true,” I said finally, “I already destroyed everything. Walking away now is kinder than staying and disappointing them later.”
“Who says you have to disappoint anyone?”
“Come on, Ben. You know me. I don’t do small towns and school plays and?—”
“Sunday dinners where Mom interrogates you about your five-year plan? Halloween costume construction projects? Fixing ancient cash registers?” He raised an eyebrow. “Because you seemed to handle all of that just fine.”
Before I could respond, my phone rang. My mother’s contact photo—her beaming face from last Christmas—filled the screen.
“Mario,caro!” Her voice bubbled through the speaker. “Your father just told me about the job offer. He’s so proud!”
“Naturally.”
“Are you excited?”
The question caught me off guard. In all my years of racing, no one had ever asked if I wasexcitedabout an opportunity. It was always assumed that bigger, faster, more prestigious was automatically better.
“I... what?”
“The job,tesoro. Are you excited about it? You sound tired.”
I looked around my cottage—boxes half-packed, a life half-dismantled, evidence of a man who couldn’t decide what he wanted to take with him into his uncertain future.
