Page 109 of Off the Grid

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Riggs

“And they’re taking care of you well?”

I snort. “Yes, Mum. I have handlers and PR minders and physio trainers and dieticians. I mean, if there’s a position you can think of, Moretti has it.”

I glance across the paddock and lift a hand to Oliver Rossi. He raises a middle finger in turn. The fucker.

“Well, that’s comforting to know. And all that travel isn’t getting to you?”

“Mum, nothing has changed travel wise, except the accommodations are way nicer, the food better, and the overall treatment is top-notch. I promise you, I’m not being mistreated.”

“It seems all so different now than it was,” she murmurs.

“Isn’t everything these days?”

“True.” She pauses. “You’ve had better success than the talking heads on television predicted you would. Like I had any doubt.”

“I just needed a chance. I’m taking it and running with it.”

“And you’re doing a magnificent job.”

“Did you doubt me, Mum?” I tease.

“No, Spence. I didn’t. You know that. You must know that.” But there’s something in her tone that tells me she’s worried.

The silence that follows communicates that her concern has to do with way more than me thinking she was doubting my abilities.

The giant elephant in the room that we’ve been skirting around since I took this contract makes its presence.

“I plan on being there,” she says softly.

And there it is.

The Band-Aid ripped off. The wound sliced open.

She’s talking about when we race in Japan. At Suzuka. The track where my father died.

It’s not for a few weeks now, and yet it feels like every fucking person is talking about it. It was brought up out of the blue in the presser yesterday. It’s been in articles written with no real correlation other than to mention the track in the same sentence as my name.

I sigh. Would I like her there? Of course. Is it a good idea for either of us if she is? No.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Mum,” I say softly, knowing how much those words are going to hurt her. “It’s going to be hard enough being back there, racing that turn, fighting the memory. I need to have a clear head, and there will be enough ghosts filling it that I won’t have any room to worry about you or how you’re doing.” I sigh. “I know that sounds selfish, but—”

“What if it’s something I need to do?”

There’s quiet desperation in her voice. A sadness that weighs on the connection. “I’ll tell you that I understand why you feel that way, but that it also makes me feel like you need to be there because you fear something is going to happen. I can’t acknowledge that in any way, shape, or form, or else I’ll start to worry too.”

“I understand,” she says quietly.

Her quiet eats at me long after she hangs up, and I take a stroll through the massive complex that houses this week’s race.

Suzuka.

I’ve been racing now for years in all levels but have yet to return there in any capacity. Not as a spectator. Not as a driver. And sure as shit not as a son remembering his father.

I have mixed feelings on the place in general. And of course, it’s the one track that has remained the same. It’ll be the one and only time I’ll literally be walking in his footsteps. And while that’s powerful to me, those footsteps will also lead me to the place that took his life.