Page 30 of Until The Lights Go Out

I swallowed, clamping my mouth shut.

“Go on,” he seethed.

“I thought he was going to close the gap,” I said slowly, knowing my own reasoning was not valid in his eyes.

“You should have pushed!” he yelled. His beard was less trimmed than it used to be. Eye bags hung under his eyes, and a strained vein popped just above his right brow.

“If I pushed it, we both would’ve—” I yelled back, not able to keep myself in check. I didn’t want to crash, I didn’t want to destroy a kart we had worked on, I didn’t want to get hurt, and most of all, all of that was avoidable, so I avoided it.

“Crashes are a part of racing.” He shook his head in disappointment. “Losing is not.” The silence fell heavy between us. My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. There was nothing to say to him. He only ever accepted a first-place win. Nothing else mattered.

“You drive like you’re scared,” he went on, his voice quieter, which felt worse than the yelling. “Do not worry about them on the track. No one else. Only you and winning.”

“I’m not scared,” I muttered, squeezing my fist tighter, nails piercing the skin.

He laughed, no amusement or warmth like anyone else, just sharp and cold.

“No?” he said. “Because from where I was standing, it looked a ’ell of a lot like fear, boy.”

Heat crawled up my neck, anger bubbling back up before I could fight it down. “I didn’t want to take us both out,” I said, voice tight like there were tissues lodged in my throat. “That is stupid racing.”

“No,” he said flatly. “You do everything to win; that is racing.” My chest tightened at his words, but he wasn’t done, and all I could do was stand here and take it.

“You think champions hesitate?” he pressed. “You think the men at the top of this sport got there by playing safe? By worrying about who they might make sad?”

I said nothing.

There was no right answer.

There never was. He stepped back in front of me, holding a wrench now, his shadow falling over where I stood.

“You lost that race because you chose to,” he said, even quieter now. “You chose to let it slip away.” That part felt like a slap, the insinuation that I made the decision to not win by not being a risky, careless driver.

“I won’t let it happen again,” I replied, head hanging.

“I expect better from a Bauer,” he spat out. “If you want to make it anywhere in this sport, second and third mean nothing. Anything other than first is losing.”

Third meant nothing. Even though I was being scouted for F4 and making great points. But sure, third place sucked! Third was nothing!

“Yes, sir,” I replied robotically. He only huffed a reply, grabbed his jacket from the chair, and shrugged it on.

“We leave in ten. Don’t make me wait,” he said, pulling out a smoke from his pocket and leaving. The makeshift garage felt too quiet now without him. He was always yelling about something, it seemed. Without him taking up the space, it felt too big. I stood there for a moment, staring at the ground, my heartbeat loud in my ears. I focused in on it, counting each beat, then exhaled slowly.

Once, twice, and a third time.

I locked it all down and bent to grab my duffel bag. I slid it over my shoulder and ignored the ache in my hip from where I’d landed when I went down. It didn’t matter, none of it did.

I just needed to be better. That was it. That was always it. So I turned to the exit⁠—

“Hey!”

I froze. I didn’t even need to turn around to know who the ever-familiar not-quite-whisper-yell belonged to. One redheaded, bow-wearing, trouble-making, first-place driver. I could hear the grin in her voice.

“Nice podium, Bauer!”

I glanced over my shoulder to tell her to shut it. But when I turned, her smile was blinding. Maisey was leaning against the doorframe, still half in her race suit, helmet tucked under her arm. There was dirt smudged across her cheek. Those blue eyes looked impossibly bright, and her braid was coming apart at the edges, curling at the ends from the sweat of a helmet and racing. She never noticed those things, was never polished or stern like my family. No, Maisey Andrews lived life like she was in the middle of some children’s musical. Big and bright and loud.

“Thought you’d be busy celebrating the win,” I shot back. Her nose crinkled.