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“Better?” He asks, running his hands over my arms to get me warm. He has no idea how warm I’m getting from him touching me.
He’s being obscenely sweet to me, he’s been nothing but respectful since we got home from Budapest, following my lead in all of our conversations. I asked him for time, and he’s given it to me, and I’ve been acting like a bitch.
Figure your shit out, Emily.
“I’m sorry,” I look around and whisper to him quietly, so no one else hears us.
“You have nothing to be sorry about, gorgeous girl,” his palm comes to my cheek, and he runs his thumb along my bottom lip as if there are not thirty people flitting around the garage. He’s looking at me like I’m the only one here, and he doesn’t give a shit about anything else.
If we were alone, I’d suck that thumb into my mouth and swirl my tongue around it.
“I’m figuring things out,” I tell him.
“I know,” he beams with confidence.
Then he’s off, getting strapped into the car, and I wrap his jacket around me and breathe in his smell enveloping me.
The first qualification session nearly gives me a heart attack. All the cars are struggling for grip on the wet track, sliding around corners, and one of the other teams loses a car into a wall, which red flags the session.
It’s still raining during the second session, and I don’t understand how there are so many rules in F1, yet they let these guys race in a monsoon. Several cars have spun out or gone into the grass.
I’m gripping Cole’s jacket around me and rocking in my stool, on edge, watching the wet tire data come in. The way they work is so different, their tread designed to push water and dry the track.
“I can’t see shit,” Dante complains over the radio.
The cars are kicking up so much water spray that it’s making it impossible for the drivers to see well.
This is madness.
On my computer screen, I see Dante’s brakes lock up, and I look up at the television monitor. His front tires are locked, but the car is still skidding into the La Source hairpin. In the blink of an eye, the backend of the vehicle spins. It's pointing in the wrong direction on the track, then round and round he goes.
I add to the collective gasp of the crowd, audible even in the garage, and leap from my stool. Two other cars are barreling at Dante, skidding, and trying to steer around him.
An engineer next to me grabs my elbow, all eyes are on the television monitors. Dante’s spin finally comes to a stop after two rotations, and the other cars narrowly avoid hitting him.
It all happens in seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Dante is yelling over the radio, more Italian swearing, and I don’t blame him. This is insanity. They need to delay qualification before someone gets hurt!
The television monitor eventually shows Cole’s car rounding a turn, thank god he’s okay. I storm out of the garage to the pit wall and pull one earphone off Edmund’s head.
“They have to delay this,” I plead. “Everyone is going off, they’re going to get killed!”
He turns toward me, and there’s a warmth in his eyes I’ve never noticed before. He wraps one arm around my shoulder, “They’ve driven in much worse, it’ll be okay.”
Worse? This is ridiculous. This is some macho bullshit, right here, that’s what this is.
Edmund pats me on my shoulder, and I make my way back into the garage. I need to calm down, I need to breathe.
Both our cars stop in the garage for a brief moment as we wait for the third and final qualification session to start. I want so badly to go to Cole’s car and, I don’t even know what. Shake him, kiss him, drag him out of the car?
You cannot do that. He needs to concentrate.
And his stupid dad has been here all weekend upsetting him. I’ve been acting like an asshole.
This is terrible.
Both cars leave the garage again, and I’m on the verge of a panic attack. All I can do is stand here wrapped in Cole’s jacket and pace. I can’t even look at the computer monitors, my eyes are glued to the television as I watch all the cars struggle and slide.
Cole starts his timed lap, and the cameras follow him through the corner Dante spun in. He nears the steep hill into the most iconic turns in motorsports history, Eau Rouge and Raidillon.
