Page 61

Story: Overdrive

Chapter Sixty

Shantal

T he entirety of the Formula 1 universe, it seems, has gathered in Santa Maria del Mar on this chilly Saturday afternoon, cramming the pews shoulder to shoulder in dresses and suits. As cold as the weather may be outside, it doesn’t stop the guests filing in from creating a special sort of humidity inside the church. I add a little extra oomph to the fancy hand fan I’ve borrowed from Diana, who’d been bustling around so quickly since morning that she’s got to be on the verge of bursting a blood vessel. You couldn’t tell, though. That’s part of why I adore being on the inner workings of Formula 1 so much. The public sees one thing when they look at the drivers – like Diana, who will put up a strong front when she needs to – but I get to see the real Diana: the raw emotions, the feelings and experiences that I think genuinely make her such a force to be reckoned with.

Darien is still in awe at the church, glancing all around like he’s never been in a church before. I have to elbow him out of his stupor when the entire room begins to rise, shooting reassuring smiles at the ever-so-nervous Miguel, standing at the front of the church in a suit, hair neatly combed, shadow of a beard in order, the terror apparent in his eyes. The things a powerful woman will do to you, I suppose.

The double doors at the end of the aisle open, and first comes the flower girl, who just so happens to be none other than Henrique Oliveira Miranda himself in a flower crown, throwing petals every which way from a comically small woven basket. Laughter ripples its way through the crowd, and when Darien lets out a particularly loud snort from beside me, clearly amused seeing the baby of Heidelberg Hybridge fully embrace his role, I can’t even bring myself to scold him.

And then she steps into the aisle, Diana Zahrani, the driver who strikes fear into the hearts of those on the grid. She exudes grace and poise, in a stunning long-sleeved white dress, lace climbing down the bodice into a skirt so full she looks as if she’s floating. The veil trails far behind her, edged with bespoke handmade pearl beading. Tears prick my eyes when I see the ones beginning to trickle down Miguel’s cheeks. It is the realization that Diana, for all the blood and sweat she’s put into sport her entire life, has found someone who truly understands that sacrifice – and loves her all the more for it.

Darien tucks a ridiculously large pack of tissues into my hand as I sniff, nodding knowingly in that dumb, infuriating way of his. I roll my eyes, but I dab at the corners of them, and the guests once again seat themselves while the officiant begins to address us all, declaring the intention of sanctifying this marriage between Miguel ángel de la Fuente and Diana Heba Firouzeh Zahrani.

Just as he had that night in Imola at the dinner, Darien still feels what I feel strongly enough that he wraps an arm around me on instinct: nothing said between us, nothing required. I lean into him, and we watch the most stunning marriage unfold in the church in Barcelona. It is atypical, an Emirati girl and a Spanish boy, both race-car drivers for the top series in the world, but I can’t ever think of a time when typical has been enough. I look to Darien, intently watching Diana and Miguel exchange vows with what I believe is a hint of very slightly watery eyes, and I think of the way I’d have felt being here just over a year ago. Indifferent, pained, maybe even resentful. Believing love to be some sort of trial by fire, something difficult, maybe impossible.

But now I know it isn’t. A very wise man once told me that loving someone doesn’t have to be any harder than we make it, and sitting beside Darien, it all makes sense.

I realize that I am extremely fortunate. Because it is so easy for me to love everything about Darien Cardoso-Magalh?es.