“That asshole! How dare he!” She couldn’t be more sarcastic if she tried, and she clearly thinks I’ve lost it. She’s basically right. I have.
I realize that I can’t tell her this story, not the truth of it, without telling her about racing. And I can’t do that. That’s the foundation of the whole problem to begin with. I thought Brody understood that, really got why I had to keep that secret.
You should tell your dad.
In the end, he thought he knew better than I did. Just like everyone else.
I’ve gone quiet, and Emily is searching my face for some kind of clue. She must find it because she quietly whispers, like someone other than the two of us might hear, “Does he not want you to race anymore?”
The room spins, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the beer and a half I’ve had. “What did you say?”
Emily shrugs. “I know you race, Rix. I figure Brody knows too. Did he ask you to stop? Or God forbid, tell you to stop?”
Laughter bursts past my lips, and I hope it sounds real, covering the horror bubbling up inside. “I don’t race anymore, you know that. Dad told us we couldn’t even go to the track anymore. I haven’t been there in years.”
Lies, lies, lies. I hate lying to her, but it’s for her own good. Okay, if I’m being completely honest, it’s selfish too. I do want to keep doing whatever the fuck I want to, but I don’t want to put that on Emily’s shoulders. She shouldn’t have to lie for me, especially not to Dad, and I don’t know if she would, anyway.
One of Emily’s brows quirks, and she sets her wine glass down on the coffee table. She takes my beer from my hand despite my protests and sets it down too. Then she grabs my shoulders and shakes me . . . hard.
“Talk to me, dammit. I know you race, have known you raced through high school and picked it back up the same week you came back home from the Army. So quit lying and talk to me.” She’s loud, and now her whole building is more than aware that I’m racing. I’ll probably have to swear them all to secrecy with promises of free oil changes.
Something about my brain bouncing around in the beer bath in my head makes her words click together like a puzzle. “You know. You know?” My eyes and mouth pop open wide at the same time. “Why didn’t you ever say anything? Oh, my God, Emily!”
So many things take shape . . . her occasionally stopping by to bring me dinner on random afternoons that always made me nervous because I had to leave to make the first race, her talking about the horsepower of every new model on the sales floor at the dealership, her never inviting me to Wine Wednesdays with her girlfriends, and when she told me about the new salvage yard a few towns over that was a treasure trove of goodies for my automotive heart.
Emily has the good graces to look sheepish, but she’s cut from the same cloth I am and that doesn’t last long before she bows back up. Finger in my face, she bites out, “You should’ve told me. I’ve given you every chance in the world to tell me, but you never did. And I’m mad about it, have been for a while, in fact, and finally, I get to tell you . . . I’m mad at you.”
“Take a fucking number!”
I get up, pacing around the living room to deal with the shocks of electricity rushing through me. Emily knows.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
“Does Dad know?”
Emily is still sitting on the couch, looking perfectly comfortable. If anything, she looks more casual, as if getting that off her chest helped her. Well, it sure doesn’t help me.
Ugh, I am a selfish bitch, aren’t I?
She rolls her eyes. “Of course he doesn’t know. Did you think I’d narc on you?” I’m silent, not answering because yes, I absolutely assumed that she would. “You did!”
Emily’s repetition is quieter, filled with hurt. “You really thought I’d tell Dad?”
I throw my hands wide. “I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to put you in that position. I don’t want to hurt Dad, but yeah, I basically never quit. I just let him think I did.”
Emily shakes her head and pats the couch beside her. “Okay, one problem at a time. We’ll come back to Dad. And how mad I am at you for not telling me, because I’ve been holding on to that for quite some time, so you’d best buckle up for that shitshow because it’s coming.” I sit, pulling the pillow back to my lap as she rants on. “For now, tell me if I need to kill Brody. The broody, grunty asshole probably deserves it. He told you not to race too, didn’t he? Don’t listen to him, Rix. He’s a Neanderthal, probably thinks you need a dick to push the gas pedal and only supports Danica Patrick when she’s in a bikini, lying on a car hood.”