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I scrunch up my face, not sure what he’s talking about. “Wha—”
“Tweeting,” he interrupts, waving his hand slowly in the air. “Don’t tweet about the team. Or post, or whatever it is you do on that damn social media. Don’t get in a situation like you did at the game company.” He’s one of the few people left on earth who doesn’t need to worry about social media, because he’s hired a crack team to handle it. To say that I’m envious would be an understatement.
“Papa, definitely not. Never.” I’d deleted all my social accounts after the game company debacle, and I’m in no hurry to reclaim them, much less tweet about Formula World. Just the idea of interacting with guys who live in their moms’ basements and think they know the sport better than I do sends a shiver of disgust through me. “Seriously. Don’t worry. I’m finished with social media.”
Papa nods, relieved. Dr. Patel loudly clears his throat, and I jump a little. I’d forgotten the doctor and nurse were in the room, I’d been so blindsided by my father’s request.
“How are we doing? Ready for surgery?” the doctor says.
I look at him, then at my father, and finally remind myself to shut my mouth.
Papa reaches for my hand. “Please say yes, kamari mou.”
“Okay.” I nod slowly. “Yes. Only until you’re better.”
He smiles weakly then starts coughing again. A fresh well of tears fills my eyes, and I fold myself on top of my father, giving him a soft hug. “I love you,” I murmur. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to be. What would I do without him?
“Love you, too, Lily.”
Dr. Patel and the nurses come closer to the bed, which is my cue to stand and clear the way for them to take my father out of the room. I do, while wiping away tears.
“Now get to the track,” Papa says, mustering a little grin.
The doctor and one of the nurses wheel him out of the room. Another nurse materializes, an older lady with jet-black hair.
“He’s in great hands,” she says.
“Thank you. How long will the surgery take?”
“Two, three hours. We’ll call you when it’s done and tell you when you can visit. I wouldn’t plan on being able to see him tonight, since he’ll likely head to the ICU once the procedure is finished. Tomorrow morning, most likely.”
The fact that I can’t see my father until tomorrow—and maybe not ever if surgery doesn’t go well—steals the breath from my lungs. The nurse says I can stay in the room to gather my thoughts.
“Would you like a hug, dear? You look like you could use one,” the nurse says.
“No,” I blurt, then immediately feel terrible, like I always do. There are very few people in this world I like to touch, and strangers aren’t among them. My old therapist claimed I suffered from social anxiety, and the effects of a mother who wasn’t physically affectionate. Or it could be due to how I’d felt self-conscious about my looks as a teen, growing up plain in a world full of rich, cliquish girls who liked to be effusive in their affection. Even though I’m well over those issues, I still don’t like touches from strangers.
“Sorry. Please don’t take offense. I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not a hugger.”
She smiles and backs out of the room, leaving me alone.
I slump into a chair, head in my hands. My knee bounces up and down, jiggling like it always does when I’m nervous. Everything’s happening way too fast for my liking—I’m more of a methodical planner, one who hates surprises and likes to have lots of advance notice. If I had my way, I’d camp out here at the hospital until I could see Papa, then hold a meeting with the factory racing team at his corporate offices in New York.
I pick up the phone and text my mom. She and my father keep separate residences because their relationship is, in her words, “complicated,” but she’ll surely be concerned. The doctor said he contacted her.
She’s a “pro-aging social media influencer,” whatever that means. All I know is that she has almost as many Instagram followers as my father’s racing team, and that she loves to pose in gauzy outfits that garner hundreds of thousands of likes and would make Stevie Nicks envious.
When she doesn’t message back immediately, I haul myself to my feet. There’s no time to wait for her response. I have to get the track now to fulfill the promise I made to Papa. Even if it’s going to suck.
Chapter Three
MAX
“Easy, Max. Easy. You’ve got room on the inside but it’ll be tight.” Jack’s voice in my earpiece is the only thing in my brain. It’s as if my body and mind know exactly what to do: win.
At the beginning of turn four, I maneuver my car to the right of Morishita’s. He’s my top competitor, an excellent driver, but unfortunately for him, he’s left enough room to allow me to pass on the curve.
