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The only important thing is that she’s not alone, wallowing in despair, throwing up, starving herself, crying all day and night.
Emily and I process pain differently. She wants to sit with her grief and analyze it endlessly, make sense of it. She wants to strategize and plan her way out of it, every move needs to be calculated and precise.
I get pissed.
That’s the only reason I’ve made anything out of my life in the wake of the shitty upbringing I endured. It’s my ultimate revenge on Stan and Kristy. Every time they hurt me, I use it as fuel.
So if Liam really wants to know why I’m smiling right now, it’s because I’m pissed. Pissed at this ridiculous situation that’s been foisted upon us. Pissed that Emily is not beside me right now.
And those responsible are going to pay in the way it hurts them the most—by watching Emily be happy. Doing whatever the fuck she wants, wherever the fuck she wants, and with whoever the fuck she wants.
That’s just always been with me.
“You did it. That is P1! P1 for you! Excellent race, just outstanding, Cole,” Edmund’s voice comes through my helmet as I cross the finish line in first at Suzuka.
“Yes, yes!” I scream, pumping my fists into the air, adrenaline flowing through me like fire blazing through dry brush.
Lennox pulls up beside me on track and gives me the finger, then a thumbs up a second later before he pulls away, and I start my victory lap. We were neck and neck the last ten laps, it was intense and so much goddamn fun.
“Thank you, Edmund,” I say through the radio, so grateful he’s back with us. “Thank you, everyone. Everybody back in the factory. You too, GG, thank you.”
I know she’s watching the race, probably holed up in her bedroom right now on her laptop. She’s never missed one. I hope they play my audio on live tv for her.
Pulling the car up to the Number One sign in parc ferme, I pull myself out of the car and stand on top of it, pumping my steering wheel into the sky while the fans go nuts. Flags and signs waive in the crowd. The Japanese fans are notorious for being the best in the world, and they don’t let me down.
The team sucks me into hugs and slaps my helmet over the crowd barrier. The only thing that would
make it better is if she were here, kissing my helmet again, telling me she was proud of me.
The television crew points a massive camera in my face, and I take the lens in both of my hands. I bend my head down in front of it and point my gloved finger right at the spot on my helmet where her initials are printed. This time they’re in big, bold, red letters, EW, emblazoned across the top.
I tap the initials, pound my fist over my heart twice, and point at the camera.
That’s for you, baby.
I’m here.
I’m never leaving.
I’m coming for you.
Twenty Eight
Emily
It’s early Sunday morning in Cambridge, but late afternoon in Mexico City and also in Texas, where Makenna is joining us from Skype.
For the first time, I am not hidden in my bedroom while I watch Cole’s race. It’s playing on the small television in our apartment with Klara by my side and Makenna joining us, virtually.
We have coffee, she has margaritas.
I’m off the Sailor Jerry now, at least.
I’m pretty sure Klara was ready to have me committed if I didn’t fess up to what my problem was. I don’t blame her. I had to borrow clothes from her, a phone charger, even deodorant—until I was able to drag myself into the land of the living to replace the bare essentials I’d moved into Cole’s apartment.
The least I could do was explain to her what was going on with her psycho roommate. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.
More likely, I finally broke under the weight of having absolutely no one to commiserate with, and I’m only making excuses for my uncharacteristic transparency.
