“Grace, where ishere?”
“Um, I’m doing a sports feature on a retired Formula One driver, and I’m in Montana.Where he lives.”
“Montana?No.”Her sympathy wraps around the line like a blanket.
“I’ll be here for six weeks.”
“Oh, G…” She sighs, a long, heavy exhale that crackles through the speaker.“Are you sure you need to put yourself through this?I know Trintol would be a huge story.Probably the biggest of your career, and I get why you’re white knuckling it.”She pauses, and I can hear her shifting on the other end, likely pacing her kitchen.“But I also know why you’re really doing it.”
“It’s a story that needs to be told.”My grip tightens on the steering wheel.“People are getting hurt.The same way Cary?—”
“Cary is gone, Grace.”Though the words are quiet, they carry a physical weight.“The man who did it is behind bars.He’s never seeing the sun again.You’ve already won that fight.”
“It doesn’t feel like a win.It feels like a trade-off.”
“Listen to me.”I can almost see her leaning into the phone, brow furrowed.“Cary wouldn’t want this for you.He wouldn’t want you spending the rest of your life trying to right a wrong that can’t be undone, even by chasing every corporate villain in the country.He knew you loved him.He’d want you tolivein the world, not rid the rot from it.He’d want you to be happy.”
I stare at the horizon, where the mountains turn into jagged black silhouettes against a purple sky.My throat tightens with the kind of ache no amount of professional success ever quite dulls.
“I’m doing my job, Buf.”
“No, you’re trying to save a brother who’s already at peace.Just...try to breathe out there, okay?Even if only for six weeks.”Her voice cracks, and pressure builds behind my sternum.
I swallow hard, forcing the lump down where it can’t get any traction and blink back the gathering tears.“Yeah.Well… enough about me.How’s Palmer?”
“He’s in Arizona.Back tomorrow.”She launches into a lively rundown of his latest client, her voice warm, clearly indicating she’s letting me off the hook.For now.
I sigh, gaze narrowing on the upcoming turn.When Winslow Grove High School appears through the trees, I pull in, cutting across the quiet parking lot.
“Buffy, I have to go.I’m here for the first interview.”
“Oh, okay, but wait—” A loud slurp echoes through the line, likely the bottom of her margarita.“Who is it?”
“Maddox Hartley.”I shift the car into park and wait for the fallout.
Her gasp is instant.“Oh my god.The Mad One.Grace, I’m so jealous.That man is seriously hot and one of the best drivers the sport has ever had.I cried when he announced his retirement.I still don’t understand why he quit.He’s young, he was winning?—”
If I let her go on, she’ll talk untilIhit retirement age.“That’s what I intend to find out.”
Last night, between running laundry cycles and shoving clothes into a suitcase, I did homework.I watched a few races and interviews, reviewed his sponsorship deals, and forced myself to read the polished press release about his retirement.None of it answered the real question: Why does a man at the top of his sport walk away?
“Um, Grace…” Her voice dips into sisterly hesitation.
“Yes, Buffy.I will.”As I get out of the car, crisp fall air encompasses me, cool and grounding.
“You’ll what?I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh, please.I’ll get you an autograph.”
She hollers, delighted, and I end the call while she’s still riding the high.A small smile tugs at my mouth as I walk across the parking lot and head inside.
In the aftermath of Cary’s death, Buffy and I clung to each other.The only person who knew what it felt like to still be standing when he wasn’t.I buried myself in work and she was the one thing that kept me tethered.
Then, two and a half years after his death, I lost her too—to a husband, to a different life, to another coast.I tried not to take her move personally.She was also grieving, and at least I had work.Outside of me and Palmer, Buf didn’t have much else.The charity she’d built with Cary lost its shape without him, and so did she.
And then there were our parents.They’re unbearable on a good day.After Cary died, they became more watchful, more controlling—always in our faces, always too close, like losing him gave them reason to tighten their grip on what was left.It would have been understandable if they’d been loving, caring parents.Grief does strange things.But they weren’t.Their attention was about optics and appearances, and it became something closer to torture.
Since New York, Buffy’s found a way to keep his memory without drowning in it.I haven’t.I poured the anger into work but some of it was reserved for my parents.When they got to be too much, I set firm boundaries and kept my distance.Buffy’s too kind for that.She needed a literal out.