ALARIC
“Focus and push, Heath. Focus and push. You’ve got this.” I rise from my stool, headset on, and grip the edge of the pit wall.
Qualifying is an important part of every grand prix, but it’s exponentially more important in Monaco. It’s one of the tightest, most unforgiving circuits in the entire championship. There’s almost no room for overtaking. Where a driver starts on the grid is typically where they place in the race.
Both Granata cars have made it through to Q3, meaning we’re guaranteed two of the top ten spots for Sunday’s race.
I hold my breath as Ferris finishes his flying lap.
“Yes.” I pump my fist when his time hits the board.
1:10.143
That’s provisional pole.
Eleanor, Ferris’s race engineer, throws both hands up beside me. Monique hops off her stool and squeezes her from behind, then leans over and punches my arm.
It’s unlikely we’ll hold on to P1 for long, but in this moment, it’s ours.
Too bad I’m too distraught to truly enjoy it.
I’ve spent the last four days moving through the world on autopilot. I’ve thrown up several times. So many, in fact, that for a while, I worried I’d caught a virus. I can’t sleep, which isn’t entirely novel for me, but I can’t read or hold a conversation or do anything else required of a functional human, it seems. Getting out of bed the last two mornings has been nearly impossible. I’ve worked from home asmuch as I can, not even coming to the paddock until today’s qualifying session.
Mia finishes her flying lap with an impressive 1:10.190.
Prince and Matty cross with times of 1:10.002 and 1:09.998.
Heath is next, nailing a 1:09.968, placing us back on provisional pole.
Lincoln is the last to finish. As we collectively hold our breath, the yellow livery of the Helios Racing car flies by, and Lincoln sets a new circuit record with a time of 1:09.500.
Damn. So close.
But P2 and P5 are still fantastic positions and our highest spots on the grid so far this season.
My colleagues hug and carry on. As they should. Accomplishments like this should be celebrated. We’re in excellent position to score major points tomorrow.
I should be elated.
But right now, all I feel is utterly, hopelessly defeated.
On instinct, I stick my hands in my pockets, feeling for the fidget Evangeline made for me. The shape and texture are a familiar balm, soothing my nerves. There’s even a shiny spot, smoother than the rest of the plastic, where I tend to rub the most.
But every time I clutch my lucky token, it makes me think of her.
The chaos and celebration continue around me. This is what the team has worked for. This makes all the grueling hours of preseason development to testing and refining these machines for peak performance worth it.
Yet I can’t even bring myself to crack a smile as I take it all in. I’m not worthy of happiness or enjoyment. Not after what I did to her.
Walking out on Evangeline as she crumpled was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I was disgusted with myself in the moment, and I’m still sick about it now. I instantly regretted my declaration. Like a coward, I couldn’t even look her in the eye when I told her we couldn’t be together.
I’ve never known a pain like this.
And if I’m reeling, I can’t imagine what she’s feeling.
I hate myself.
Why does it feel like what’s best for her is the worst option for us?
