She shakes her head. “I don’t think you understand how much he cares. Noah’s been developing the hand controls himself with Bandini. He’s committed to making your return as easy as possible, including clocking in hours during his busy schedule to make sure the throttle pad and steering wheel is perfect.”
“Are you serious?” The words leave my mouth in a whisper.
“He’s spent the past two off-seasons visiting the warehouse working with engineers and James on a car configured specifically for you. You’re the missing piece he needs, Santiago. He can test everything himself, but he can’t face the Formula Corp by himself, and you know that. They’d never accept the proposal without proof of your recovery.”
Holy shit. I had no idea Noah wanted me to return this much. I hate how I’ll only end up disappointing him with my decision to not race. No matter what he does, I can’t face that lifestyle again. The thought of living in the shadow of the racer I was has me solidifying my decision.
I open my mouth, but she stops me.
“I hope you know we believe in you. You’ll get back out there. I’m sure of it. And one day, you’ll show the world the same role model I had growing up. And I can’t wait to be there to cheer you on.”
The thought alone has me wanting to end the video call and hide from the emotions they both stirred up inside of me. Rather than express my feelings, I lock them up in a box and bury them deep within me.
I’m not racing. Not now. Not next season. Not ever.
10
Chloe
I lean against a wall around the corner of the coffee shop. “You can do this, Chloe. This is the moment you’ve been waiting twenty-four years of your life for.”
After enough deep breathing to clear anyone’s sinuses, my nerves return to a somewhat acceptable level. A bell chimes above me as I enter Matteo’s coffee shop. The aroma of espresso beans hits me in the face and a machine whirls in the distance.
I stop moving as my eyes land on my father for the first time. He focuses on steaming a cup of something, which gives me time to gather myself and get a good look at him. His dark hair appears as black as mine, with the faintest gray at his temples.
His brown eyes catch mine. Two dark brows pinch together as his eyes scan my face. Something passes over him, but he shakes his head.
Does he recognize me? Do I look like my mom? Maybe I expected too much when I created a scenario in my head about him immediately recognizing me as his long-lost child.
“Ciao. Che cosa vuio bere?”
Yeah, I definitely expected too much. My mouth parts open before shutting again. Unexpected tears prick my eyes, but I take a deep breath and chant to myself how everything is okay. I’m here now, and that’s better than never.
His lips turn down, showing off some deep-set wrinkles near his eyes and mouth.
“I don’t speak much Italian,” I blurt out.
He nods his head. “I can speak English too. My mom was born in New York.” He smiles in a way that makes my knees weak. The whole experience of meeting him is something indescribable, with my chest tightening and hopes I long gave up on filtering through my head.
I rub my damp palms down my cotton dress. “Oh. Nice. New York.” You can talk the paint off a wall, but now you lose the ability to speak when it matters.
He chuckles to himself. “Yes. Did you come here for coffee?”
“Well, actually, I was wondering if you were hiring a barista.” All right, my approach was about as smooth as sandpaper.
He looks around the nearly empty shop, his eyes bouncing from the one customer in a corner to me. “Since we don’t get many customers here, I handle all the orders.”
I’m getting the brush-off by my own dad. I mentally dig my feet in and raise my chin. I did not go through hell to get here only to give up at the first sign of trouble. “I can help with anything you need. Accounting, the ordering of supplies, checking stock.” I list off everything I have no experience with. If I learned how to pick a lock on YouTube, then the world is my oyster.
His brows lift. “Well, I could use help with one thing, but the pay isn’t great.”
I attempt to keep my nod to a normal level of enthusiasm. I’d accept working for free at this point because I’m willing to do just about anything to spend more time around him. “Sure. What is it?”
He explains the pay and how he needs help cleaning the shop every day because he messed up his back a few years ago. My excitement doesn’t falter when he passes me a rag and window cleaner. Spending time with Matteo is what I traveled all this way for. Who cares if I’m sweeping floors or making terrible coffee for unlucky patrons? As long as I get to be with him, I couldn’t care less about my job.