Page 17

Cam

Think they’ll give me points for this? – caption from Cam’s social media post – a video of him doing donuts in a go-kart, May 7th

“Nervous?” I ask, pulling off the highway toward the go-kart track.

“No,” Sadie answers, looking away.

“Why do you bother lying to me?” I ask.

Her voice is somewhere between a laugh and a curse when she responds, “Why do you ask questions if you already know the answers?”

“Alright, I won’t make you talk—”

She cuts me off. “I’m not worried about anyone crashing ,” she whispers the last word, the way she always does. “No one will get hurt. Right?” She looks at me for confirmation.

“No one will get hurt,” I promise.

“So that part, I’m not nervous about,” she says on a shaky breath.

I give her a sidelong glance. “You sure, Winslow?”

“Okay, I’m a little teeny tiny bit nervous about that part. Just the idea of being at a track, of racing anything , makes my heart all flittery,” she admits, wiggling her fingers and hands frantically in front of her chest.

The braaap , braaap , braaap of revving motorcycle engines carries over our conversation as I turn into a parking space. The sound lights me up inside in the best way, but at the same time, I worry about her.

We’re at a smaller track today—one I raced on countless times when I was in the 600 class. It has a go-kart track adjacent to the motorcycle track. One of my buddies who works here hooked us up for the afternoon, along with seven go-karts. But I hadn’t thought about how hearing the motorcycle engines while she’s racing go-karts might affect Sadie.

“Is it going to bother you that there are motorcycles here too?” I ask. When her eyes go wide, I realize my mistake. “They’re on a different track. You’ll only hear them.”

“Oh,” she sighs in relief. “In that case, I think it’ll be okay.” Unbuckling her seatbelt, she turns to face me. “I think I’m actually going to have a lot of fun.”

I squeeze her hand. “I think you will too.”

A dimpled smile fills her face. “Sometimes I’m just nervous. Like my body has nerves that haven’t met my brain yet. Does that make sense?”

“Sort of,” I answer, trying to place the feeling. “It’s not an experience I’ve had, but it sounds exhausting.”

She shrugs. “You get it.”

I make her promise to tell me if she needs a break or if there’s anything I can do to help her feel safer as we gather up helmets and head out to the track. She surprises me by lacing her fingers with mine as we walk.

I’ve held her hand before, but I can’t remember a time she initiated it, or a time we did it when no one else was around. At this point, we’ve done a hell of a lot more than hold hands, but it still sends a rush through me when she intertwines her fingers with mine.

Squeezing tightly as we pass the motorcycle track, she leans her head into my shoulder. “It’s like exposure therapy,” she says, watching the motorcycles. “I have to get used to it at some point.”

Has to get used to it at some point. Even if she was truly my girlfriend, I wouldn’t force her to be around something that upsets her so much. “You don’t have to,” I say.

She smiles brightly at me, dropping my hand as we reach the go-karts. “I guess not, but I want to.”

We start out with the most in-depth safety talk anyone’s ever made about go-karts. It’s been years since I drove one, and I spent hours last night researching everything I thought she’d need. Knowing she would ask, I even memorized statistics about how rare deaths and injuries are. It’s not that no one ever gets hurt on go-karts—there are precautions to take—but it’s nothing compared to racing motorcycles.

Toward the end of my talk, she starts to get antsy, bouncing on her toes and glancing back and forth at the karts.

“You ready to try?” I ask.

She nods. “I thought you’d never ask!”

“You want to follow me the first few laps to get a feel for it?” I ask.

“No,” she answers, a sliver of her competitive streak showing through. “I know how to drive.”

She picks a black-and-yellow kart, number seven, and I take my time helping her get buckled into the four-point seatbelt.

“Is this necessary?” she giggles, as I run my fingers under the straps that go from her shoulders to the connection point at her waist.

“Of course,” I answer.

“For safety?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Not at all,” I answer with a low chuckle. “That was necessary because I wanted to touch you.”

Her cheeks flush, but her lips turn into the same teasing smirk I’m beginning to yearn for. Giving her buckle a firm tug—that actually is for her safety—I reach down and pull the starter on her kart. “Rubber side down,” I say, kissing her helmet in the same place she once kissed mine—right underneath the visor’s opening.

She giggles and smiles as I fold myself into the one next to hers. These karts are low to the ground, with a metal frame, bucket seat, and not much else. They’re so small, my knees stick up comically close to my ears.

“You look ridiculous,” she laughs.

“Won’t affect my ability to win a race. Don’t worry,” I say with all the seriousness a man who’s folded himself into a pretzel to race a go-kart can.

“I thought I was supposed to win,” she says.

“It doesn’t count as winning if I let you—”

She slams on the gas, pulling away before I’ve finished my sentence or buckled my seatbelt. Smart girl.

The tiniest ball of anxiety appears in my chest when I see her out on the track by herself. It is safe, but I wanted to be there to help her. I’m sure it’s only a small fraction of what she feels every time I race, but it’s good for me to experience it.

I make it onto the track as she disappears around turn one, tires screeching loudly enough I’m surprised she doesn’t hit the rubber barriers that define the track. Letting her experience the joy of an empty track, I keep some distance. She doesn’t take turn two quite as fast, but her tires are still screeching—slowing all the momentum she built on the straightaway. In the next few turns, she starts to find the rhythm of entering a turn slow and exiting it fast. By the time she’s finished her first lap, she’s even racing the most efficient line of the track.

I come up close, letting her feel what it’s like when someone’s trying to pass. She looks over her shoulder at me, and I throw my fingers up—pointing first to my eyes, then to the track ahead. No girlfriend of mine—pretend or otherwise—is going to make the mistake of not watching where she’s going. Sadie’s head snaps forward just in time to save herself from hitting the rubber barrier.

The ball of anxiety appears again. E ven if she had hit it, she wouldn’t have been hurt, but I don’t want that for her.

She needs to be comfortable with other racers getting close and trying to pass, so I nose into the opening she leaves on the next turn but hang back instead of passing. I keep that up, giving her a break on a few turns, since having me that close likely made her anxious. One time, she actually blocks me herself, so I can’t pass her. It’s pretty hot.

During our third lap, I take the opening and move past her into the lead. Giving the go pedal everything I’ve got, I take the kart to its sixty-five-mile-an-hour limit. Sadie does an impressive job of following my race line and staying reasonably close to me—usually no more than two or three turns behind.

We pull over after a few more practice laps, and she barely has her visor open before she cheers, “That was so fun! And— oh, my word —how dare you be so much better at that than I am?”

“I’d be in a lot of trouble if your first time on a track, you beat me in a race,” I say, unbuckling the strap under her helmet and helping her lift it off.

“I guess.” She stands up from her kart and shakes out her legs. “But I had a good lead on you in the beginning.”

Unable to resist, I tease, “Because you cheated.”

“I did not cheat,” she denies with a scandalized gasp.

“You started before the green flag.”

“What green flag? It’s just the two of us.” She puts her hands on her hips.

“Alright, you didn’t cheat,” I give in, stepping closer. “You were amazing out there.”

“I was, wasn’t I?” she beams, in a rare moment of accepting my compliment.

I run through some quick advice to help her with speed before we head back out on the track for more practice. By the time our friends arrive, her nerves seem to have settled, and she’s ready to race.

When Bea, Allie, and Devon rush her with hugs, I step back to give her space with her friends. But she cuts through the little crowd past Luke and Rhett, grabbing my hand and stepping in front of me with her back to my chest. Excitement rolls off her as she gives everyone an abridged version of the safety talk we went through an hour ago.

“When you go around the turns, you don’t want your tires screeching, but a little chirp is okay.” Sadie moves on to racing advice. I’m not sure if she’s ever been cuter. “If your tires are screeching in a go-kart, you’re losing all the momentum you built on the straightaways. Not worth it.”

“Did you just teach her that?” Luke’s voice is quiet at my shoulder, careful not to talk over Sadie.

“Sure did,” I nod, rubbing my thumb at her hip. “I think she might like it enough that we’ll get to build her a custom kart.”

“I bet Allie loves it, too,” Luke says, likely already imagining the specs of the racer he’d build for her.

Devon’s eyes are trained on Sadie, like she’s mentally taking notes. Something tells me she’s the most competitive person in this group.

Rhett steps in close to Luke and me. “How much trouble you think I’ll get in if I beat Devon out there?”

“You ever raced anything before?” I ask.

“Never,” he answers.

Taking in the set of Devon’s jaw, narrowed eyes, and the stance that looks like she’s ready to pounce, I laugh. “Don’t think that’s gonna be your problem, boss. I’m half worried she’ll beat me .”

“How do we determine the starting positions?” Devon asks after Luke and I have lined up the karts on the track. “Are there qualifying laps we need to do?”

Shaking my head, I answer, “We’ll put the experienced racers in the back. The third and fourth kart already have warm tires, so that should help even it out between who starts out front.”

“So damn precious with your tire temperatures,” Allie laughs as she walks up to the second kart.

Devon’s eyes narrow, not liking my answer. I’ve never been Devon’s favorite, and I know she’s still skeptical about Sadie and me. She doesn’t doubt if we’re truly dating, but I’m sure she questions if I deserve her. We have that in common. “Okay,” she agrees, and I honestly cannot tell if she’s unhappy about it or not.

Bea ends up with the first kart, followed by Allie, then Devon, then Sadie—who insisted she’d have more fun if she got to pass some people. My racer girl. Rhett, Luke, and I fill up the back three.

Once my buddy from the track waves the green flag to indicate the start of the race, Sadie does an impressive job of laying into the turns exactly how we practiced, immediately gaining on Devon.

Luke and I both pass Rhett fairly quickly, bringing Bea into focus—meaning Devon and Sadie have passed her already. I wonder which turn Sadie used. Part of me wishes I wasn’t racing, just so I could watch her the entire time.

Before long, Luke and I are at Allie’s tail. But he hesitates to pass his girlfriend. Coward. We’re close enough to the front now to see that Sadie is holding on to the lead, but just barely. Devon—who’s presumably never raced a kart in her life—is all over her, nosing in on every turn.

I hate it . I want to get in there and dice it up with Devon to keep her out of Sadie’s way. I’d be up there already, but Luke is pulling out on every turn next to Allie, leaving no room for me to pass, but also not passing her. Again, coward.

He’s a tough challenger on a racetrack. Professionally, it’s lucky for me he enjoys the mechanic side more and gave up racing before we even got out of high school. This is the first time I’ve raced him in years, and it’s time to show him what’s changed.

On the next turn, he pulls to Allie’s outside, and I begin nosing in on the inside. Poor Allie has no clue how to handle it and slams her brakes, letting Luke and I both fly by, putting Luke in third and me in fourth. Which is absurd, considering the race is almost over and we’re the only two people on this track who have any experience racing.

I can’t take him yet, so I give him a little love-tap, letting him know I’m here.

Racing is rubbin’. It’s a racing phrase I specifically have not shared with Sadie because I’m sure it would scare the shit out of her. But it is fairly common—even in motorcycles—to make a little contact with other racers on the track. In go - karts, when we have rubber barriers framing the entire track? It would almost be rude not to.

As Luke and I continue to battle it out, we end up right on top of Sadie, who is now just behind Devon. I want Sadie to win this, but I can’t hand it to her. He’s holding his line like a pro, but I manage to squeak by him with minimal contact, using the momentum to rocket past Sadie.

On the next turn, Sadie starts gaining on me. Good girl. Come and get me.

The first turn I’m close enough to Devon to pass, I grab it—shooting past her. We’re on the last lap, and I’m in first. But that’s not what I want for Sadie. Breaking my own rules, I glance over my shoulder and see that Luke has passed her, and he’s gaining on me. When we only have two turns left, he’s too close to pass without clipping me. I brace for it, thinking it’ll be a love-tap, but he gets me at just the right—or wrong—angle.

As we both spin out, my first thought is how this will register to Sadie as a crash. S he’s doing so well, and I don’t want her to lose her edge. We’re fine, but will she know that?

My kart slides well enough out of the way, but Luke is an obstruction on the track. Devon’s coming too fast, and slams her brakes, barely missing his kart and losing all of her momentum.

The track is different now with three karts in the way, but Sadie maneuvers it perfectly, adjusting her speed and braking for the tighter turn. No one has enough time to catch her after that, and she crosses the finish line first.

She did it. She beat every single one of us.

She has her helmet off immediately, and I’m unsure if I’m about to get yelled at for crashing or—

“Did you see that?” she yells.

“Hell yeah, Winslow! You won!” I yell, rushing to her.

Seeing her race lights me up inside. The fact that she’s willing to overcome her fears in order to let me share something I care so deeply about is overwhelming in an incredible way.

For what feels like the thousandth time, I’m blown away that her ex didn’t see how amazing she is. He’s still in my DMs talking shit and saying she wasted his time, but he’s the one who wasted his opportunity with her. He had her for so long . How could anyone know her, be loved by her, and not be completely taken to their knees in awe?

“Does it still count even though some of you guys got stuck back there?” she asks when I reach her. Got stuck. She doesn’t even call it a crash.

“ Yes . Yes, it counts. You won. You’re a badass little go-kart racer,” I say, scooping her up in my arms.

She wraps her legs around my waist and rests her forehead on mine, whispering, “That was so fun. I want to do it again right now.”

Shifting so I’m supporting her with one arm, I use the other to hold her chin and tilt her face toward mine. “You were amazing out there,” I say, drawing her close and bringing her lips to mine. It’s the first time we’ve kissed since the day she let me taste her, but even if no one else was around to witness—to corroborate our relationship—I would still be kissing her right now. Nothing has ever felt better than celebrating her after she won her first race.

Resting my forehead on hers again, I whisper, “ You are amazing.”