Page 87 of Formula Dreams
I nod.“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” she says, sounding so tired.“I just… need to be alone for now.”
“I’ll come check on you later,” I say, assuming she’ll be at her flat.
She disappears into the crowd outside, leaving me on the hospital steps with nothing but the hollow certainty that if I don’t find a way to bring her back, I’ve lost her for good.
CHAPTER 28
Francesca
Italy has alwaysbeen my refuge.I’ve traveled and lived all over the world during my racing career, but nothing is as peaceful as returning to my roots.
Normally I find sanctuary in the lush hills lined with the cypress trees, but right now, it’s like I’m in exile.
I came home Sunday evening along with my parents and Alessio.After I left the hospital, they weren’t long behind me and found me at my flat packing.I told them I wanted to come home and even though they tried to talk me out of it, they eventually did as I asked.
Although I wanted nothing more than the space that Ronan gave me, a part of me is grieving my loss of him.I said horrible things so he’d leave me alone and I know that I’ve ruined whatever was growing between us.
I know he couldn’t see.Couldn’t understand.When I said I was done, it was because of him.Yes, Carlos died and I’m still wrestling with the guilt, but all I could think of when we were in that hospital waiting room was that I’d never survive it if it was Ronan.I can’t be involved in a sport that can take so much from me, and I don’t know if I can be involved with a man who is at such risk.
I didn’t just disappear though.I called Ronan on the way to the airport and told him I was going back to Imola.It was a short conversation.Stilted, even.I know I blindsided him, and I made sure he knew how horrible I felt about it.I thought he’d argue, and part of me expected him to chase me.He did, after all, give up his race at Silvercrest by pulling off the track to comfort me.
Instead, he said, “I understand.I just want you to be okay, Francesca, so whatever it takes, I support it.”
I was both grateful and sorrowful.I have since wondered if I did the right thing in leaving him behind.
I’ve wondered about a lot of things.
It’s been four days since the crash, and they’ve blurred together.Mamma hovering close, pressing coffee into my hands each morning.Papà walking with me through the gardens, even when I say nothing for an hour.They’ve been patient, careful, like I might crack if anyone moves too quickly or speaks too loudlly.
And maybe I would.Because all I can hear, over and over, is Carlos’s teasing laugh, Carlos telling me I was good enough, Carlos promising to watch my back.And then the silence when they pulled his body from the car.
Everyone at Titans Racing has been wonderful.Brienne Norcross herself called me.She told me to take all the time I need to sort myself out.I was honest with her when I said, “I’m not sure there’s enough time for that.”
I read that they called Matthieu Laurent back to take my spot on the grid.If he performs well in Monaco this week, it may not matter if I want to go back.They could give him the spot permanently.
That stung in its own way, seeing how easily I could be replaced, but mostly—it was a relief.Because I can’t do it.Not yet.Maybe not ever.
Ronan has called a few times but I’m not answering.Same for his texts.I know he’s talked to my mamma, but she’s staying strangely silent on the matter of my love life.She attempted to talk to me about it once.Told me not to shut him out and to please not let fear decide my future.I told her, “If I can barely survive losing Carlos, what would it do to me to lose Ronan?”
She had no answer and for now, they just hold space with me.They don’t push, but I see the worry in their eyes.And still I sit here, in the garden behind the villa, staring at the hills and feeling like I’m floating outside my own body.My biggest concern is what to eat for lunch today and maybe how long I might nap.It’s a far cry from the pressurized world of Formula International.
“Francesca.”
My entire body goes rigid, that rumbling British accent that has caused me to melt on more than one occasion.
I turn around and see Ronan standing on the patio, just outside our great room.My eyes drink him in as if parched, and he’s never looked more handsome in black denim with a lightweight gray sweater.
He looks so out of place against the soft Italian morning that for a second, I think I’ve conjured him out of thin air.
I’m frozen.“What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t answer right away, looking out over the scenery.But then those blue eyes come back to me, and they’re filled with censure.“You’re impossible, you know?”
“So I’ve been told,” I mutter.
He holds out his hands as if he can’t decipher the answer.“What’s a man supposed to do when you won’t answer his calls or texts?”
