Page 16

Chapter 16

The Finish Line

June

I ’m parked in the arrivals lane at Denver International Airport, watching the automatic doors like they’re about to spill out something precious. Which, let’s be honest—they absolutely are.

My fingers drum against the steering wheel, my pulse flaring like I’ve been shot with espresso. But this isn’t caffeine jitters. This is the Noah Verelli effect. Back in the USA. Mine.

It’s wild how fast that happened—how fast we happened. Just three months ago, he was a stranger. A fast-talking F1 legend from a different world. And now I’m sitting here, vibrating with nerves like I’ve been waiting a lifetime to see his face again.

It’s over three weeks since I last saw him in person. Three weeks of sim work, night testing in Spain, and track sessions in Tokyo—and now he’s back, just as Cedar Falls starts blooming. Warm sun, soft wind, the scent of damp earth and daffodils—it feels like everything’s waking up again. Including me.

He’s here now on a short little break before pre-season goes into full gear. Every bit of pun intended, thank you very much.

I spot him before he sees me—walking like the sidewalk should clear for him, all tall, unhurried confidence and jet-lagged swagger. His carry-on rolls behind him like a well-controlled puppy, happy to be trailing him.

I notice his hair’s longer than the last time, curling at the ends in a way that makes my fingers twitch to touch it. The beanie only makes him hotter, somehow. He’s layered in a hoodie and a sports coat, the kind of rumpled and rugged that looks entirely intentional.

My breath catches, heart thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to outrun reason. Every part of me feels pulled toward him—like gravity recalibrated just for this moment. And judging by the side glances he’s collecting from everyone he passes, I’m not the only one staring.

His jaw is shadowed with travel scruff, and his mouth curves like he knows exactly where I’m parked—and exactly what I’ll be thinking when he gets here. When he locks eyes with me through the windshield, he grins.

That grin. The one that makes my knees weak from thirty feet away. The one that makes my stomach flip and makes my thighs press together automatically.

He jogs the last few steps, opens the passenger door, and before I can say anything, he leans in and kisses me across the center console. Not a hey-babe peck. A full-body, breath-stealing, head-spinning kiss that says, mine.

His hand grips the back of my neck, the way he always does when he’s about to ruin me. His mouth is hot and greedy, lips parting mine like he’s starving and I’m the only thing on the menu. I whimper—actually whimper—and his groan rumbles straight into my chest.

For a second, I forget we’re in a public parking lot. Forget that I’m supposed to be the composed one. Sanity leaves the moment the pressure of his tongue brushes against mine.

“Hi,” he murmurs against my lips, voice rough and velvet. “Missed your mouth. Missed this sweet taste.”

It shouldn’t undo me like this, but it does. The sound of his voice. The weight of him beside me. The way his touch doesn’t just settle on my skin—it settles in. The past month felt endless. I didn’t realize how empty I’d been feeling until he filled that space again like only he can.

He finally pulls back, eyes hooded, gaze sweeping over me like I’m the next lap he wants to devour.

Then he climbs into the car and shuts the door, slow and cocky, like he knows exactly what he just did to me. “You look too kissable even when I’m so jet-lagged.”

I drag in a breath, dazed. “I can say the same about you. You smell like F1 danger and taste like hot sin with a side of time-zone confusion.”

He chuckles, deep and satisfied, the kind of sound that coils low in my belly. "You always did have the cutest and filthiest compliments."

I laugh, eyes still side mirror before pulling out. “You hungry-hungry... … or just hungry for me?”

“Both,” he teases back. “But I've a bad hankering for something greasy and American since I got on the plane. Can we stop for a burger?”

“Hmm... thought you were describing me—grease monkey, all-American, and served up hot just for you.” I bat my lashes, feigning innocence, then drag my bottom lip between my teeth before giving him a slow side glance. “You want fries with that, or just me on the menu?”

We end up at a corner booth at Waylon’s Burger Shack with fries between us, and that soft, slanted spring sunlight streaming through the windows—brighter, warmer, like the season’s finally shifting. The scent of grilled onions and salt perfumes the air.

It’s familiar. The kind of greasy comfort that makes you think everything might be okay. Noah’s across from me making unholy noises with his first bite, and honestly, it’s obscene. But it’s also stupidly endearing. He devours that burger like it’s Michelin-starred steak and I’m already imagining the Yelp review he’d write if he weren’t so busy moaning. Even this. My heart's still trying to catch up to the way his thigh brushed mine under the table. It’s nothing. But also everything.

“Baby, this is what I've been craving.” he says with his mouth full.

I smile, wrapping my fingers around my milkshake, “I should be offended. But I'll forgive you because you look so happy.”

He wipes his mouth with a napkin and then reaches into his coat, pulling out a thick envelope. “Okay. Now for real—I've been tasked to bring this to you.”

I take it. The logo on the corner: Fagioli Motorsports.

I open the envelope. Read it. Then freeze, eyes scanning the lines again, like they might rearrange into something less insane.

“This is… this is…”

“A formal invitation,” Noah beams, his blue eyes catching the rays of the afternoon sun.

“From Fagioli Squadra Tecnica. June, this is like an academy, an in-house, industry-recognized training and mentorship program for future engineers, mechanics, and systems analysts!"

His voice is racing—fast, excited, with contagious energy. My eyes dart between the letter in my hands, and his glowing face, trying to keep up. “You’d be working with Raf and other seasoned engineers and mechanics. Real sessions. Real builds. Hands-on everything.”

I'm breathless just listening to Noah, and he's not done. “Dante saw what you did in the track garage. Remember what he said about 'impressive Cedar Falls ladies?' I think this is what he had in mind then! Raf also said your instincts were sharper than most of the juniors they’ve worked with.... Darling, they don’t offer this to just anyone.”

My heart is thudding, trying to take it all in. The words on the page blur while I focus on Noah’s face—lit with pride, so sure of me—and I feel it again: the disbelief, the awe. Yet still, my first rational response is, “I still have to finish my school year.”

Thankfully, Noah didn't think it was a wet blanket. He just nods and takes my question at face value. Like he knows me enough to expect me to say that—and he had already thought it through.

“They know. That’s why it states the training will start in July. They’re willing to work with your schedule—wait for you to finish your school year here and have time to move to HQ. No pressure. Just… the door is open.”

My throat tightens. “So... this is real?"

And that word— real —it hits harder than I expect. It floods me with something jagged and strange. Not fear exactly, but something adjacent. A buzz of disbelief, of hope so loud in my chest it feels like my ribs might crack under the weight of it.

This was never in my life plan. No five-year projection included 'a prestigious F1 mentorship offer delivered over fries by my too-handsome boyfriend. And yet here it is. Mine. Tangible. Real.

I think of all the times I’d part-timed at the shop, grease on my hands and a Sharpie tucked behind one ear. How my parents often nudged me toward academia but I'd always be back in the shop, under some hoods.

Even as a Middle School Science teacher, my favorite unit to teach was simple electric motors—letting kids tinker with copper coils and magnets to make things spin. I’d bring in old fan motors and model car parts, challenge them to figure out how circuits worked or why something overheated, and watch their faces light up like they’d just cracked the code to the universe.

It was hands-on, messy, and made them feel like engineers. Maybe it made me feel that way too.

I shudder having these thoughts flash by in my head.

Noah gently touches my left pinky, breaking me from my reverie. He leans in, warm and steady, like he’s anchoring me back to earth. He nods, voice low. “You don’t have to decide now. Personally, I think you'd flourish in the program and love every moment of it. But, ultimately, regardless of what I think, you'd be the one who gets to choose what comes next.”

Later that night, my parents invite Noah in for dinner. When Noah compliments the pot roast, Mack grunts something about not letting a pretty face sway his opinion, but he still gives Noah the bigger helping. Vicky just grins and whispers loudly, "F1 charmers are a real menace—just ask your daughter."

I nearly spit out my drink. 'Mom!'

Noah just grins like he's won pole position at Monaco. 'It's true,' he admits, helping himself to more potatoes. “Charm 101 comes right after G-Force Survival. Mandatory for F1 heartthrobs.”

When I'm finally ready to tell them about the internship, my parents both go quiet.

Then Mom slips into full Mama Bear mode—eyes sharp and steady, hands warm on mine, familiar in a way that makes me feel both sixteen again. She glances at Noah, then locks eyes with me, her voice gentle but unshakable. “Are you doing this because you want it, baby girl? Not just because you love him?”

“I do want it,” I say quietly. “I think I’ve always wanted something like this. I just never thought it was possible.”

Dad nods and tries to clear his throat, weighing my words. Then, he turns to Noah, and looks him dead in the eye. “You’ll watch out for her?”

Noah doesn’t flinch. “Every minute I can.”

“Good. Because she’s got more grit than most boys I’ve ever trained—but she still deserves someone who’ll remind her she can do anything she damn well pleases.”

Those words hit something deep in my chest, unexpected and warm. My throat tightens with a mix of emotion I can't quite name—gratitude, disbelief, love.

I glance at Noah, then back at my parents, and I nod. It feels like something old settling into place. Like maybe, just maybe, everyone here believes in me more than I ever dreamed.

That night, after everyone’s gone to bed, Noah and I sit in the den, firelight flickering over the old photo frames on the mantle.

“I want this,” I whisper. “For me.”

But even as I say it, a ripple of guilt catches in my chest.

Because wanting never came easy.

Not for someone like me—left behind as a baby, shown in clear action that I wasn’t wanted, mere days into my life.”

And yet… I was given everything.A warm home. Two parents who chose me. A town that wrapped me up in love and second chances.So I learned to be grateful. To stay quiet and useful.To take only what was offered—and never ask for more.Because what if I said yes to something this big—something just for me—and then it gets taken away?Because life has a cruel way of punishing people who hope too loudly. Because wanting means risking.And risk means I could lose again.Be left again.

And now, being told that I can want more— be more —it’s almost impossible to comprehend.

I look down at Noah’s hand, clasping over mine so lovingly.

I take a deep breath that’s too shaky to hold before I try my best to express the turmoil I'm feeling inside.

“Wanting hasn’t always been safe for me,” I say softly. “I already have so much and reaching for more meant risking disappointment.”

Noah doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush in to fix it.

I feel the tension coiled in his hand—his thumb still, his breathing shallow—as if he's holding space for whatever truth I’m about to give him.

"And dreaming too far outside Cedar Falls feels like I'm betraying the roots that raised me."

Noah watches me, eyes steady.

“This isn’t betrayal, June. This is your chance to thank the people who raised you—by blooming to your fullest.”

I freeze. My heart stammers.

Because he sees it.

He sees my abandonment trauma wrapped in a learned pattern of protective gratitude.

He lets me take a moment to let his words sink in before he adds gently.

“And maybe... maybe your birth parents didn’t leave you because they didn’t want you. Maybe they left you by that firehouse because they wanted more for you—more than they could give at the time.”

He presses on.

“You, Juniper Kennedy—you’ve grown up so well. Lived with so much heart. Loved even better. And now?”

His eyes seek mine.

“Now you get to fly, beyond the mountain ranges of Cedar Falls, and live into your potential. Whatever that looks like. Whatever you want it to be.”

By the time Noah finishes, my breath is caught and I’m physically aching. It takes a few seconds to even release the sigh. And I start sobbing.

Heart-wrenching cries. Loud. Ugly. Unstoppable. Because that’s when it hits me—I’ve been holding myself back. For years.

Never letting go of my past, of how my life began.

Out of fear. Out of guilt. Out of some misplaced belief that I didn’t deserve more.

I never imagined having permission to want, until what Noah just said.

Now, because of Noah, I realize it was always within my power to find a new beginning.

And it's not too late.

Especially when this wonderful, beautiful man, looks at me like I’m already enough—like I don’t have to prove or earn my place, just claim it. Somehow, his belief in me made it easier to believe in myself.

He hugs me closer, “You'll be alright.”

“And if I don’t?” My one last defiant doubt slips out.

He leans forward, kisses my temple. “Then we figure it out. We make it work.”

My voice is softer than a breath. “We can really do this?”

He smiles—and it’s the kind of smile that settles into my bones and refuses to leave. Mischief threaded with honesty. Fierce devotion dressed up in cocky charm.

“I'll be on your ass, Songbird. Every step. Pushing you. Hyping you. Making damn sure you work your tail off—because you’re meant to shine, and I don’t want there to be a single ounce of doubt that you earned every bit of it.”

Then, more serious now, his voice lowers into something steady and sure. “Let’s build something that doesn’t box us in. We'll grow together. Have a life we chase side by side—messy, wild, and ours. Wherever it takes us.”

I lean into his side, nuzzling into his neck and murmur, “Just so we’re clear—if this turns into a montage of me in coveralls shouting lap times over engine noise… you’ll still love me, right?”

He chuckles, presses a kiss to my hair, and says, “Deal. But only if I get to be the guy who makes you late to pit lane because you can’t keep your hands off me.”

“Deal.”

Two days later, we are at the Centennial Airport. Noah's taking a private jet to Singapore for the opening race prep. I’ve still got two more months of lesson plans and hormonal preteens to wrangle.

But something’s different this time.

This goodbye doesn’t feel like the others. It’s not heavy. It’s not hollow.

He kisses me once. Then again. And then once more, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me before boarding.

“You’ll come soon,” he says.

“Yes. Sooner than you think,” I tease, brushing my fingers down the front of his jacket. “I can't wait to see you under the lights—sweaty and smug, tearing up that Singapore night track with a podium finish!”

“That's the plan, love. So, see you at Spring break then?”

I nod. “I’ll be there at the finish line.”

He smiles, slings his bag over his shoulder, and gives me one last wink before walking toward the plane.

I wave and stand, watching the plane taxi toward the runway until it disappears beyond the hangars, swallowed by sky and distance.

And I don’t cry.

Because this time, I’m not staying behind.

This time, I’ll be catching up.