Page 77 of Break My Heart

His gaze shifts to me. “The family I realize I had and never put my faith in.”

I nod slowly. Without prompting, he continues, “Dario. He’s…family. The only one I’ve recognized in a long time. He never asked me to be anything, which made it easier not to let anyone else in. Now I’m realizing that shutting people out doesn’t actually protect anything. Kind of like your mother questioned you about your choice of code over people.”

His words hit me quietly because they make sense. I recall the rest of my conversation with my mother, that long ago school day. “Letting people in means risking something you can’t control.”

“I know. I was never taught how to make space for vulnerability.”

I squeeze his fingers tighter and appreciate this moment for what it is—honesty—even as we watch other cars on the track. When he stands to head back, he squeezes my fingers.

I return the gesture, not pulling away.

And neither does he.

27

DOUBLE OVERTAKE: PASSING TWO CARS IN ONE MOVE

The world narrows the moment I slide into the cockpit. It always does.

All the noise from the crowd and commentators fades into something distant and irrelevant. What’s left is mechanical. The wheel in my hands.

The weight of the car beneath me.

The track ahead.

Barcelona isn’t forgiving in the same way Monaco is tight or Jeddah is fast. It’s technical. Demanding in a way that exposes everything—every overcorrection, every hesitation you didn’t know you still had.

Which means there’s nowhere to hide. Ruefully, I think, Not that Christin will let me.

Not anymore.

The launch is clean. I slot into position, heart rate steady. My mind tries to anticipate Turn Three, but I force it back by thinking of what Christin would say if she were in the car with me.

Stay present. Don’t anticipate what’s ahead.

Digging down deep, I center myself and drive.

Lap after lap, my rhythm builds. Tyre management is spot on. Brakes feel good. My steering input feeds through Christin’s software. She is in here with me. I tighten my hands around the wheel, as close as I can be to her in this moment. Her telemetry program is so sensitive, I’m certain it feeds that flicker of change back through the software.

But as much as I can picture her frowning over it, I know she’s also recognizing I’m not making the micro-adjustments I would’ve made eight weeks ago. Hell, five months ago.

Now, I choose what actions to take because I’m thinking about them—not reacting to what’s happened in my past.

The blur settles in around lap five. For me, the blur isn’t a loss of control. It means my focus has sharpened so tightly that everything else ceases to matter. The car becomes an extension of my body.

I take Turn One clean.

Turn Three comes out into a fast right, long stretch of road. I recall anticipating the understeer before it even happened. Correcting before my car’s inputs gave me a warning to do so. This time, it’s different. I’m tempted—boy, am I tempted—to engage in old habits. I’m practically quivering with the urge to start my turn just a fraction sooner, to compensate for something that hasn’t happened yet.

Then, her voice cuts through my headset. Calmly advising me, “Don’t assume failure. Trust what’s happening.”

My grip tightens for half a second, then I let the last of it go—not the wheel, but my side of the wall I built between us. With it, tension flows out of me. Holding the straightaway, I trust the telemetry.

Trust the system.

Trust her.

The car responds exactly the way it should. No understeer. No correction needed. It’s so clean as I power out of the corner that I call out, “That’s the way to do it!”