Page 50 of The Fast Track

I know I made the right call as soon as I step inside. The Evanses’ house is cozy, the air rich with the smell of butter and freshly baked bread. There’s hardly space for all three of us in the kitchen, but I manage to help myself to a generous scoop of shepherd’s pie and two dinner rolls without knocking anything over. Cameron glops his own plate full, then leads me through a worn doorframe that opens into a small living room. An old man—Cameron’s grandfather, if his distinguished features are anything to go by—is dozing off on the couch, sitting uprightwith his head lolling back. Cameron gently removes the half-eaten plate from his hands and places it on the faded wooden coffee table. The TV is still on, playing BBC Four.

Cameron squeezes in next to his snoozing grandfather. I sit in the empty floral-patterned armchair, taking a bite off my plate.

“How is it?” He’s watching me nervously, like I’m going to spit it out and demand he take me to a fancy restaurant where they serve foam that tastes like lobster.

The mashed potato topping is whipped, fluffy, and creamy all at the same time—in other words, the best thing I’ve eaten in England so far. I consider pretending it’s not my cup of tea just to mess with him, but he looks so adorably anxious I decide to go easy on him. Better to go easy on him here now than on-track later, anyway.

“It’s delicious. I’m so glad we’re eating here.”

He lets out the tiniest of sighs, one he almost succeeds in hiding with a confident smile. “Don’t let Nan hear you say that. She’d make you have three more helpings.” He shovels an overflowing spoonful into his own mouth.

“I would love that. I’ve been eating steamed chicken and kale for dinner all week.” Mom always makes sure to remove all the good parts, like the skin and the wings. “How often do you have dinner with your grandparents?”

“I try to come by every week.”

“I don’t blame you; this place is incredible.” My gaze wanders around the room. The wallpaper is yellow with anintertwining floral pattern. The mantel above the well-worn fireplace is crammed with photos, most of them featuring Cameron and his older sister.

I get up to take a closer look. The pictures are arranged in age order—the outermost features little Cameron in a sweat suit set, entry bib pinned across his front as he beams next to a kart. There’s one toward the middle of him and Pat, both holding trophies. This must have been before Cameron hit his growth spurt, because they’re the same height in the photo.

“That’s from Super 1 a few years ago.” Cameron comes up behind me.

“Was this the time you got mad because you had to share the prize money?”

He laughs. “I was thirteen. You think I was still throwing tantrums?”

“For all I know, yes.” I suppress a grin. “I was doing ROK Junior that year, and the boys there were definitely throwing hissy fits.”

“Was that the one where you finished hundreds of points up from the next bloke?”

I beam. Timmy Harris, who was all charm and etiquette when parents were there, had muttered “Make me a sandwich” as soon as their backs were turned. I waited for him in parc fermé just so I could whisper “Only winners get sandwiches” into his ear while hugging him for the cameras.

Then another memory—much more recent—springs to the forefront. One that doesn’t quite add up. “If you knowabout my FWT record, how come you didn’t recognize me?”

“What d’you mean?” Cameron says in a too-casual tone that sounds like he knows exactly what I mean.

“At Season Opener drinks?”

“You still remember that?”

I fight the urge to tell him it’s not every day you meet a boy who looks like the lovechild of Alain Delon and Gregory Peck. “I looked up everything on you to prepare for F3. And you couldn’t tell me apart from the marketing intern.”

That was the start of his villain origin story. Why I wrote him off as a posh, aristocratic boy dabbling in racing as a low-stakes lark.

He groans. “God, I was an arse.”

I shrug, trying to look like it hasn’t bothered me since the day we met.

“Okay, this is going to sound petty,” he says. “That day of the party, I’d just got told by a potential sponsor, this home security company Nan and I had been talking to forever, that they were going to wait to make a decision. They wanted to see if they could sign something with the female driver—you.”

My mouth goes dry. “I’ve never even heard of them.”

“They’re pennies compared to your roster. Your mum probably deleted the email.” He laughs ruefully. “They signed with me eventually, after you rejected them.”

“I’m sorry” is all I can think to say, as my core foundational memory of him is turned on its side and twisted and looped.

“Don’t apologize, not like it’s your fault. Besides, I shouldbe the one apologizing. I wanted to take you down a couple of pegs when I ran into you, so I pretended I didn’t know who you were. Not very cool of me.”

“I get it,” I say quietly. “I was off base about you too.”