Lana
Love me back …
I shower early in the morning for practice for the Italian Grand Prix, then slip on my jeans and my team T-shirt. I want to do something pretty with my hair, so I blow-dry it and let it down, then I add some lipstick and look at myself again.
“Tell him,” I tell myself. Tell him how you feel, I think, and I’m so determined to tell him that I even smile at myself in contentment as I head to the track.
“Where’s Tate?” Drake asks when I arrive and anxiously scan our tent for the familiar sight of Racer in his Nomex suit.
“I don’t know.” I start in surprise. “He’s not here?”
“Not here. Not in his room,” Clay says in obvious worry and puzzlement.
“What?” I ask, and I grab my cell and dial … only to go directly to voicemail.
“We’ve already left a dozen messages, don’t even bother,” Clay says, sighing and plopping down on a chair.
I still dial again. Get voicemail.
“Hey. It’s Lana. Um, Alana,” I try to make light of it. “Call me?”
An hour later, I’m with my heart in my throat. Three hours later, there’s a black hole in my life where Racer used to be. All I know is that he’s gone and that my stomach is in knots because I sense, deep down, that he needs me. That he’s proud, that it’ll cost him everything to tell me that he needs me. All I know is that I’m lost without him, and that the last time I remembered this feeling was the day they told me my dad had cancer and was refusing treatment.
