Chapter Two 

My parents named me June, for summer, because I was due on the solstice. I was born on the first of July. My late arrival would set the standard for the rest of my life—a bit of a slow pace, late bloomer, always a couple steps behind. It'd always been this way, through everything from first words to womanhood. Including, it seemed, the latest news, which stared accusingly at me on New Year's morning from the beady headline of some sports tabloid. 

Charlie Yang signs with Morini Racing for the upcoming 2024 season. 

Now it made sense. Last night, and Charlie's hesitation, words seemingly on the tip of his tongue. Once more, I was the last to get it. 

I shoved my phone my phone away, swallowing the pit that had risen from stomach to throat, climbing from the car my father had sent for me at nine this morning, feet hitting the pavement unsteady. He'd postured this as breakfast to ring in the new year, but now I could see it was just another calculated move in whatever game he was playing.

Charlie Yang sat at the corner table of The Beaumont—once Joshua's favorite restaurant—his back to the window. Over his shoulder was my father, sipping coffee as he nodded sternly, engrossed in whatever it was that Charlie was saying.

I could turn around, I told myself as I observed the scene from outside. I was twenty-eight for God's sake. I could. But I wouldn't, being at the beck and call of my father simply an illusion for a truth I wasn't ready to accept—that without him, I was truly alone. That without him, my memory of my brother might start to fade, no one there to remind me of all the things that had already begun to diminish with time.

So breakfast it was.

My father barely looked in my direction when I sat at their table moments later. Just offered a short, "You're late," over his menu, which he now studied intently. As if he wasn't going to get the same egg frittata-rye toast combo he always did. "I said nine-thirty."

"Yeah, well I didn't drive here. So I don't know what you want me to do about that." I helped myself to the mimosa pitcher between us, and hazarded a glance in Charlie's direction. His usual golden skin was pale this morning, bags under his eyes evident. He gulped when our eyes met, then looked away, off into the distance as if that could save us both from this whole ordeal.

Dad set his menu aside then, and clasped his hands together, a telltale sign of an impending speech. "Try not to drink too much," he told me then. "And it'd be lovely if you could avoid making a scene. You're upset. Which I can only assume means you've seen the news. But you have to realize, June—I didn't do this to hurt you."

So right into it then. Thinly, I said, "Funnily enough, I don't actually assume anything you do is done with me in mind."

Whatever response my father had to this was cut short by the waitress arriving to our table. For two seconds, we were normal, ordering as if this were a common occurrence—the three of us sitting here. Together. Then she was gone, and the arctic bite of tension returned. I downed my second mimosa. Charlie kept looking at anything but me. And my father resumed his stern lecture.

Tuning him out, I ran my finger along the edge of the table. Found the spot where my brother had long ago carved out a chunk with his steak knife. My stomach churned at the memory. At all of the memories, really. Joshua's birthday tradition, of strawberry pancakes with whipped cream piled on a mile high. Hangover meals consisting of hash browns, plain toast, and ginger ale. The steak knife carvings at any table we sat at. His initials were etched somewhere, in one of the legs of a chair.

"...I just really hope this can bring us all closer together," my father was saying when I returned to the conversation, jolted back to reality by the familiar ache clawing its way up my throat. "It's all I've ever wanted."

"You're about seven years too late for that," I managed haltingly, if only because every word now felt like a wooden block lodged in my windpipe. "And even if you weren't, don't you think there's a better way to announce your next big move than at Joshua's favorite restaurant? We're not some little family here, okay? And we never will be. Joshua's not someone you can just replace. And you"—I jabbed a finger in Charlie's direction as the telltale sting began to prickle behind my eyes—"will never be him. I mean, God, what a blindside! He'd be so disappointed in you right now."

Charlie white-knuckled his napkin but didn't say a word. His Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow he worked down, and I waited, breath held, for him to say something. Anything. An excuse or an insult. But nothing. Just silence, thick as molasses, hanging heavy off each passing second.

"I don't expect you to understand," my dad cut in eventually, as the quiet grew too long. He reached for my hand, but settled for tapping his fingers on the tablecloth as I jerked out of his grip. "Not right away."

"Try ever." I stood. A little unsteady on my feet from the three mimosas on an empty stomach. Head in a bubble. Blood hot and pulsing through my skull. "This?" I gestured between the three of us. "I'll never understand. Thanks for breakfast. But I'm not hungry."

Hooking my purse over my shoulder, I spun and sped past the waitress, who was on her way to our table with Dad's steaming frittata and a fresh pot of coffee. Behind me, I heard my name—Charlie or my father I wasn't sure—but I kept going, bursting through the front doors, out into the cold.

I made it around the corner and halfway down the alley before I leaned over and puked, all three drinks coming right back out to splatter at my feet. Great. Happy New Year.

"June." A gentle hand pulled my hair back from my face, and as I straightened, my fingers pressed to my lips, I found Charlie beside me, still grasping his napkin which he passed to me then, a frown set deep on his features. "Jesus."

"It's my shoes I just puked on, not yours." I wiped my mouth and turned away. "Can you just go back inside? I don't want to talk to you."

He didn't move. Just forged on with, "Look, I'm sorry I didn't say anything last night. Your father asked me not to. But you're right. I should have. So I'm sorry."

"I don't want to talk about cars, Charlie." Because it was always about cars. Had been about cars since I was out of the womb. "I just want to go home."

At this, his hand came to rest on my arm, tentative at first, then firmer when I didn't yank away. He turned me to face him, brown eyes searching mine. "Then I'll take you home. I'll have the valet bring my car around and we can go."

"You don't even know where I live," I managed.

At this, he smiled wryly. Said, "I'm sure we can map it."

What I had meant to say was that how strange it was, to be here now. It felt like a lifetime ago that he did know these things. Where I lived. How things were with Dad. We used to spend New Year's Day in the two-bedroom corner apartment he shared with my brother, the three of us sprawled in the living room, lights off, hungover until the afternoon. Now he was just a stranger. Familiar but not, thrust back into my life like a knife to the heart.

"I'll take you home," he said again, more insistent this time.

My pride reared its ugly head, desperate to have my stand my ground, but I was freezing, and could totally puke again if the right wave of nausea hit me. Plus, I knew my father was approximately forty-five seconds away from coming out himself to find us. So I nudged my chin in the direction of the restaurant and said, "Get your car, then. I'll meet you down the block."

I'd wanted to be subtle in my departure. Hence the waiting at the corner, shivering in my heels. But I failed to remember that Charlie Yang was, well, Charlie Yang—Formula 1 heartthrob, five-time world champion, sports car enthusiast. He pulled up at the stop sign in his unmistakable custom Morini car, engine revving, about as subtle as a gun.

"Slam the door a little harder next time," he said dryly when I all but dove into the passenger seat, my teeth chattering as I scanned the streets for any potential witnesses. "You might shatter a window if you do it hard enough."

"You can afford to fix it." I rubbed my hands together in front of the vents, relishing in the warm air that blasted through them. "Besides, I'm just trying to shield myself from the wrath of your fans."

I could've sworn there was a hint of a smile then, fleeting, a flash and then nothing. As if I'd imagined it. Maybe I had. "There's always been rumors about us, June," he said. "And you've always survived the fans."

This was true enough. But things had been different then, not that I thought he needed me to remind him of this. "Why'd you leave Helios?" I asked instead, looking out the window as we idled at the curb.

What I really meant was Why did you sign with my father at Morini? But I'd never say it aloud and even if I did, I knew I wasn't a person he'd tell his secrets to anymore. He confirmed this fact now by skimming past my question to say, "Do you want to map the way back or do you just want to tell me where to go?"

"Just follow Eighth to the waterfront," I said. "I'm in the brick building with the big windows."

With a nod, he peeled us away from the curb, and then only the rumbling of the car engine filled the silence between us. I tried to think of something to say. Maybe an apology for my outburst at the restaurant, or a comment about the weather, anything. But nothing came to me.

Eventually, finally, he spoke. "I thought about telling you, June. About the move to Morini and your father. Even before I saw you last night, I thought of you." He glanced in my direction, frown deepening his features. "I just couldn't find the words."

I shrugged and looked away. "You don't owe me anything, Yang. It was just a shock this morning, that's all. That and walking in blind to breakfast. But that's my dad for you. Always loves the impact of a big reveal."

"Still, I'm sorry."

My chest squeezed in on itself, and I shrugged again, eyes on the city buildings blurring together as we sped past. "Don't be. I left that world behind a long time ago."

I sounded ridiculous, and it was a half-lie anyway. Sure, I'd abandoned it all the best I could—no more race weekends or GPs on the TV, no more stalking stats at one in the morning. All my Auden merch had been packed up neatly in a box and stored deep in a corner of my closet. I tried. But the truth was there, no matter how badly I wanted to hide from it. Even in Joshua's wake, I couldn't deny the facts: that I still let myself skim the sports tabloids for news, still crossed my fingers on every Quali day and hoped for a good result. Every GP Sunday, I flicked on my closet light and stared a hole into the brown box tucked against the wall. Reopening the wound each time.

That was the thing about grief; sometimes you just clung to it like it was the only way to remember.

It was why I still saw my father, why I'd sat at the fire with Charlie last night. And why I was here now, in his car, full of questions and heartache.

He spun the wheel now with the heel of his hand, a familiar gesture that I used to study meticulously. Now, it was just another reminder of what had been. How I knew him but didn't. "Here?" he asked into the silence, nodding toward my apartment building that now loomed before us.

"Oh. Yes. Thanks." We'd arrived so suddenly, and the feeling that crept up my throat felt strange. There was so much that seemed left unsaid, and now there was no time to say it. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I paused, hand on the door, searching for the words. "Thanks for the ride," was all I could find.

Charlie's tired eyes pinned me in my seat. "June," he said. Softly. Like it meant something.

"Yeah?"

"Can we not leave it like this?" Like last time was what he really meant. A half-open ending, hanging in the balance.

"I don't—"

"Come to Australia in March. One race. The first one. That's all I ask."

I sighed at this and shook my head, pushing the door open to climb out. "Goodbye, Charlie."

"June, please." He got out too, rounding the front of the car to face me in the sidewalk. Great, now we were out in the open, prime prey to any dickhead with a camera. "Can you just talk with me for a second?"

"About what?" I cried, unable to help myself. I threw my arms wide, temper flaring, egged on by the mimosas from earlier. "It's been seven years, and not a word from you! Seven years! You were the only person who understood me, and when Josh died, you weren't there. He was my brother, you know? My best friend." My voice hitched but I forged on. "I'm glad you've gotten everything you ever wanted, Charlie. Really, I am. But I told you—I left that world behind me. I have no intention of going back."

His cheeks were pink, from the cold or the shame I wasn't sure. But he was as stubborn as I remembered, not backing down without getting the last word in. "I haven't gotten everything I wanted."

"Spare me the sob story."

"It's the truth. Joshua was my best friend but so were you. And you're right. I should've been there. But I couldn't. I was a coward. Every time I looked at you, all I could see was everything I took from your family." He reached out, as if to touch me, then seemed to think better of it, letting his arm fall back to his side. "I'm sorry."

Whatever came next was lost on me, cracked open by the sound of Charlie's phone ringing. I glimpsed the screen as he pulled it from his pocket, and reality settled back heavy in the pit of my stomach—my father was calling. "You should get that," I said blandly, as the ringtone went silent for a beat, then started up again. "He'll never leave a message. He'll just blow you up until you answer."

I didn't comment on how my father hadn't bothered calling me, and Charlie knew better than to ask. That was the one unwritten rule we seemed to agree on: don't talk about anything that actually matters. And sure, we could hash out the hard feelings at the strangeness of being thrust together once more, but we had been dancing around the whys since we'd reconnected, neither of us willing to take the dive in.

I haven't gotten everything I wanted.

Shaking his words from my head, I took a step back, and gestured toward his phone, which continued to light up in his hand. "Take the call," I told him with a faint smile. "I'm sure that it's something important."

The look on his face told me he wanted to argue. Tortured brown eyes and that deep frown that was going to cause lines to etch permanently in his face. I turned before he could find his voice, taking the steps to the front entrance two at a time without looking back. My chest squeezed tight as the building door thudded heavily behind me, the grief an iron-fisted grip.

Charlie Yang signs with Morini Racing for the upcoming 2024 season.

He'd never told me why he'd signed, just that he was sorry for it. That and the rest of it. And it was funny, almost. I'd spent years believing that an apology might get us somewhere, might solve the aching gouge to my heart, might even fill some part of that gaping wound the loss of my brother had left behind. Instead, Charlie's reappearance in my life, and the apologies that had come with him, only cracked the hurt wider, everything a reminder to what might have been.

There was no use dwelling on it anymore. I told myself this as I entered the elevator, doors closing on the sight of Charlie still on the sidewalk, head down as he spoke to my father on the phone. Not even a million answers would help me make sense of it all. I'd come to this realization long ago. New Year's Eve and his contract with Morini had merely been a hitch in routine. Once the initial shock wore off, it would all return to as it had been.

Racing would become nothing more than a had been again, Charlie Yang a far off thought, all of it to be left in the rearview. 

a/n: please vote and/or comment if you enjoyed ! did i edit this ? no ! my brain literally feels like falling out of my head but i am doing my best ok. happy weekend and thanks for reading ! em xo