Lana
We feel refreshed and hyped the next morning as we have breakfast with my family at the hotel restaurant, our luggage all ready upstairs for our flights.
Last night, in between celebratory sex and sleepy lazy sex, Racer and I debated over whether I should come back to the U.S. with him, or go back to Spain—where we usually live in between seasons—with my dad and my brothers.
He said he’d go with me if I decided to stay in Spain, and I told him it all depends on my father.
Which is true.
He looks a little more tired than the rest of us today, but there’s a peace in his eyes that I’d never seen before.
“We won, Daddy,” I say as I lean over my chair and hug him. “You can check that off your bucket list.” I take his hand, and he smiles and glances past my shoulder at Racer.
“You love my daughter, boy?”
My brothers stop eating and look at him.
“Like crazy, sir,” Racer says without missing a beat.
“I’ve been glad to see you two follow your hearts, but I want to make it clear once more that you have my full blessing to date my daughter.”
Racer looks at him in silence, his eyes gleaming in gratefulness as he nods. “Thank you, sir.”
“None of us are perfect; sometimes we fuck up. As long as there is love and loyalty, boy, anything can work, and I’m saying this to the both of you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Racer nods again.
My smile widens and I squeeze my dad’s hand. “Thank you, Daddy.”
My brothers just nod, chuckling as they rib one another.
“I told you they had it for each other from the second they walked in,” Clay says, nudging Drake.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Drake says.
“Are you planning to race next year?” Dad asks Racer.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you, Lana?”
“I’ll be here. I mean”—I eye my brothers and father—“maybe in the future … Racer will race in something closer to home. We’ll be at F1 until things lead us somewhere else. Maybe closer to home. Eventually I will want a home, Daddy,” I explain softly.
“You deserve it. You’ve been home for us all these years.”
“You too, Daddy.” I feel a tear slip, and I quickly wipe it away. “I want you to be okay, Daddy.”
“Lainie baby,” he says, drawing my eyes to his as he explains, “I didn’t think getting treated would help. I didn’t want to leave you alone. But now it seems you have someone to take care of you even better than I can.” His lips quirk mischievously, and he looks like a young boy again.
“Daddy, I’ll always be with you and you with me. I’m not going anywhere. Racer and I had been discussing me going to the U.S. with him for a while, but I’m not leaving if you—”
“What I mean is … I want to try treatment. For my cancer.”
“Oh.” My eyes widen, and my heart leaps. “Oh, Daddy. Really?”
“Yes, Lana. I don’t want to miss this for the world.” He motions to the windows and Abu Dhabi and my brothers and Racer at the table, and a tear slips down my cheek.
I wipe it away quickly even as I feel Racer’s big, callused hand on my thigh, my throat still closed as I squeeze his hand in one of mine, and my father’s in the other. “Yes. We’re with you.”
Racer leans forward. “Sir, my parents have a big home in Seattle and there’s great medical care in the U.S. You’re welcome to stay there if you feel like you want treatment in the States. The guys are welcome to stay there too, before the season stars. Lana can stay with me.”
“I appreciate that, son.”
He extracts his credit card to pay the check and once we all stand to gather our things, my dad slaps Racer’s back, and Racer slaps his back in return, and they’re smiling at each other, and I’m standing in one of those moments where you realize beauty is made up of a thousand tiny pieces—some pain, some bittersweetness, some hope, some love—and the end product is that life is worth living it.
Before we fly back to the United States, I help the team pack up the collection of trophies that we accumulated during the season, as they will travel along with our cars.
Before the cars are packed up in the trailer, I watch as Racer strokes a hand over Kelsey, then he leans over and kisses her nose. He flips a coin inside her and takes my hand to lead me out of there.
“Superstition?” I ask.
“Just don’t want her to feel lonely.” He smirks.
I smile. “You’re lucky I’m not jealous.”
“Yes you are.”
“What?”
He rubs his index finger down the freckles of my nose. “If you could see the look in your eyes when the girls come over for my autograph.”
I stiffen, and he chuckles, peering down at my face before pecking my lips in that fast way of his that leaves me no choice but to endure it. Mmm.
“I like you being jealous of me. I’m jealous of you; you’re mine,” he says, opening the door of his rental for me while my brothers board the SUV with my dad.
“You’re mine too.”
“I am. I race for you. Live for you, girl.” He takes my hand and kisses the back of my knuckles, igniting the engine and driving us down to the airport for our flights to Spain, where my family and I will pack (as we agreed just recently), and then to Seattle.
