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My whole body is warm, gooey, the way it gets when I haven't seen my sister for ages.
Nick is my boyfriend, and he's going to be my wedding date.
He's got this crazy idea that I'm going to drive a car, but that's a minor imperfection when everything else about him is so intoxicating.
Okay.
It's a major imperfection.
But maybe he does have a point.
This does weigh on me.
It forces me to stay in the city. I love the city, but I want to travel too. To go places only accessible by car without crumbling into a pile of nerves or downing a Xanax.
I meet his gaze. "I will look at the track, but that's all I'm going to do. You're going to hate yourself for wasting the morning taking the subway to Queens."
He nods, then unlocks the gate with a key from his pocket.
He holds the door open for me, his expression totally inscrutable.
I take a deep breath as I look around the track. It's big, maybe three-quarters of a mile in one long oval shape.
The gray asphalt is worn with tire marks. The stands go all the way around it. There are enough seats for a few hundred people. A few thousand even.
It's no NASCAR track, but it's plenty.
There's a car parked in the middle of the roadway. A black luxury sedan.
I swallow hard. "Should I even ask how you made this happen?"
"I made a few phone calls."
"How much did it cost?"
"Less than it's worth." He pulls keys from the pocket of his jeans and hands them to me. "It's your choice."
There's no one else here. No people I can run over, no cars I can hit. The worst I can do is run into a wall or divider.
I run my fingers over the metal edge of the key. "I'll try sitting in the car, but I'm not promising more than that."
"I have a limo reserved for the day." He looks me in the eyes. "In case you get comfortable being in the car."
"What's the limo for?"
He traces the neckline of my t-shirt. "Motivation." He smiles. "So we only waste fifteen minutes getting back to the apartment."
"Are you implying that I was snippy?"
"I deserved it."
"Fuck yes, you did."
He smiles. "No one stands up to me like this."
"No one stands up to rich, white men. Especially when they're handsome." I take his hand. "I appreciate that you want to help, but next time warn me. Okay?"
"Okay."
I nod. I can do this. In theory.
I squeeze Nick's hand as we walk out onto the track.
The car has an electronic lock. I press the button and it makes that beep-beep sound. The locks click open. I grab onto the door handle and pull it open.
Easy. Totally easy.
My dad let me drive a few times when I was a kid. When we were visiting family outside of the city. It was exciting then, all that power in my hands.
I slide into the driver's seat and fasten the buckle tight.
Nick settles into the passenger seat and closes the door.
Yes, the door. I need to close that. I reach over and slam it shut.
Easy. Totally easy.
My hands are shaking so hard I can't get the key into the ignition. I close my eyes and channel my yoga breathing. Deep inhale to fill up my lungs. Deep exhale to release everything.
I look down at my hand. It's not shaking quite as hard. It's manageable.
I slide the key into the ignition, but I don't turn it. Not yet.
"You okay?" Nick reaches over to offer his hand.
"So far." I dig my fingers into the steering wheel. "Is it even legal for me to drive here without a permit?"
"No."
I look at him. "Who are you and what did you do with the Phoenix Marlowe who interviewed me in January?"
"You do something to me." He places his hand over mine.
"What is it I do?"
"You make me forget my priorities."
I stare into his eyes. "What does that mean?"
He breaks eye contact to look at the track. "Are you ready?"
"Yeah." I bring my hand to the key. I remember how this goes. I press my foot against the brake as I turn the ignition.
The engine kicks with a roar. The dash lights turn on. Cool air blows from the vents.
"Want me to walk you through it?" he asks.
"Please."
"Foot on the brake."
I press against the brake as hard as I can.
"Right hand here." He taps a button on the center console. "Press this as you take the car from park to drive."
"Is this your car?"
"Yes."
"What if I crash it? Your insurance won't cover that."
He laughs. "Are you really worried about my insurance?"
I shake my head. Okay. Hand on the center console, finger on the button. I put the car in drive.
We're at one end of the track. There are about five hundred feet before I have to turn. I can drive in a straight line at ten miles per hour. That should be doable.
Even if my hands are shaking like a goddamn earthquake.
"Take your foot off the brake." His voice is calm, even. "The car will start to move forward, so keep your hands on the steering wheel."
"Okay." My breath races. I can do this. I can drive this fucking car.
I take my foot off the brake. Sure enough, the car rolls forward. My hands dig into the steering wheel. I move it too far right then too far left. After a moment, I'm mostly steady.
"Put your foot on the gas. Softly. Don't press down yet."
I don't quite have the hang of hovering over the pedal. I tap it and the car lurches forward. According to the dash, it's only about eight miles per hour. It feels like a million.
Nerves flutter in my stomach. I'm in a car, and it's rolling forward. I know that I'm not going fast enough to do any real damage, but that does nothing to slow my breathing.
My fingers dig into the steering wheel. For a quick second, I glance at Nick. His eyes are on me. There's some mixture of affection and pride on his face.
I focus on the road.
"Keep one eye on the dash and stay under twenty miles per hour."
As if I would drive any faster than that. I press on the gas as lightly as I can.
The car lurches forward. Slows. Lurches forward. My neck jerks. My muscles tense.
Steady. I need to apply a steady pressure. With one eye on the track and one on the dash, I press down harder.
The car speeds. Ten miles per hour. Fifteen. Twenty.
I manage to steer mostly straight.
My heart thuds against my chest as we get closer to the curve.
Nick places one hand on the steering wheel. "Try to turn. I'll keep you steady."
His voice does something to me. Makes me forget about things I've held onto for a long, long time.
Driving isn't the worst thing in the world. Not on this empty track.
I turn the wheel to the left, leaning into the curve. I'm going too steep. It's no good. I lose control of my breath, my hands clutching the wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
Nick evens out the car. We don't crash. We make it all the way through the curve without crashing and exploding in flames.
Of course I know the car isn't going to explode, but that doesn't keep my head free of the image of NASCAR drivers running from their cars with their suits on fire.
How do I have such a vast reserve of terrifying mental images?
The straight part of the track isn't bad. I keep the car at an even twenty miles per hour. My breath isn't normal but it's not quite so strained.
I manage the next turn. The next straightway.
I go around the track half a dozen times. I'm doing it. I'm driving. I'm driving and I'm not crashing.
By the time I reach a dozen laps, I'm too anxious to take anymore. I press on the brake much harder than I mean to. The car screeches to a halt, jerking out bodies forward and back.
I look over at Nick as I take a deep breath.
He's smiling.
His eyes are filled with deep affection. He takes my hand, leading me through putting the car in park. Then he leans over and wraps his arms around me.
His lips hover over my ear. "I'm so proud of you."
"Can we be done with this now?"
"Yes." He shifts back into his seat. "The track is reserved for the rest of the day if you want more."
I shake my head. "That's not happening." I press my foot against the brake as I turn the car off.
My back and neck relax as the engine shuts off. I survived driving, but I'm in no rush to prove I can survive it again.
I undo my seat belt and get out of the car as fast as possible.
Nick slides out of the passenger seat. He moves to me and wraps his arms around me. The hug is so tight it takes my breath away.
I squeeze his waist over his coat. "Can we get a cup of coffee or something before we head home?"
He presses his lips to my forehead. "You don't need more coffee."
"Because I'm shaking or because I'm an anxious mess?"
Nick slides his fingers under my chin, tilting me so we're face to face. "You're not a mess, Lizzy. You're the bravest person I know."
A lightness passes through my chest and stomach. I believe him.
It hardly seems possible that, out of the hundreds of successful people Phoenix Marlowe, tech CEO, knows, I am the bravest.
