Bristol raises her hands like my father did, and she keeps an eye on him as he moves around the room. I fall into my usual habit, or at least the one I picked up when I started watching Dustin race when I was in Omaha. I lean with every turn, imagining I’m in the car with him, watching his hand work, his foot heavy on the gas. He’s a master at matching the speed to the RPMs, slipping the gears up and down with the smoothest strokes.
Ten laps in, and Dustin has settled himself into sixth place, a comfortable cushion for him. He likes the chase, and he’ll need it when he nears those middle laps. That’s the great equalizer, my dad says. The endurance part of a two-hundred lap race is what separates winners and losers. It becomes about managing the car, negotiating distance remaining with the need to get there. It comes down to Douglas and Tommy, and Dustin’s willingness to listen to them.
My dad takes a seat on the floor near Bailey’s parents for a while and explains the intricacies of race strategy. Bailey’s mom does not seem interested, but her dad? He’s hooked. He’s a shrewd man, and this sport is all about calculations. It’s nice to see him and my father bond over something. Maybe, if Bailey’s lucky, they’ll find a good rhythm to get along well for the wedding.
“Psst!” I nag at my friend. She glances over the back of the couch and I nod to my father’s abandoned seat. She offers my dad her place and joins me in the back.
“How long before our moms bail, you think?”
We both laugh, but no sooner does she suggest that than her mom is talking my mom into moving into the kitchen to look at wedding magazines.
“About that long,” I joke.
Bristol goes back to arranging her stuffed animals, and I take advantage of the lull in the race to catch up with my friend.
“Did you pick a dress?”
She grins and pulls out her phone.
“It’s down to two.” She slides through a few pictures for me but there’s one she pauses on a little longer than the others. It’s simple, with beaded straps that crisscross in the back over a scooped open section that rests at the small of the back.
“That one’s elegant,” I say, giving her that nudge.
“It is,” she coos, pulling the phone into both of her palms and admiring it. “I think it’s the winner.”
“Me, too.”
I can’t believe my friend is getting married. To my brother. There was a time in my life when I wished for this so Bailey and I could be actual sisters, but I never thought much about the part that she’d have to kiss Tommy to make that happen. Now, though? It seems natural that the two of them are one.
“I’m so happy for you,” I say.
She reaches over and takes my hand, squeezing it.
“You still have to wear the ugly green dress.”
I laugh.
“I couldn’t imagine a ceremony where I wore anything else. Now . . . let’s talk bachelorette party.”
My friend’s eyes light up and she swivels her head to check on our mothers, two women who would not approve of the kind of party I’m thinking we need to throw.
“I’m going to cross Vegas off the list if that’s okay,” I whisper.
She turns her head back to me and nods in agreement.
“Have you heard anything from . . . him?” She means Alex.
I shake my head.
“Not since the note.”
I asked Jorge if he’d seen anyone or heard anything since he’d been home, and he said it was incredibly quiet. I asked him to tell me if he got anything suspicious in the mail, but I think if Alex is to provoke us again, it’ll be in person.
“He doesn’t have a reason to bother you, I guess. As long as he gets what he wants.” Bailey says almost the exact same words I told Dustin, and I probably feel as reassured as he did when I said them.
“Until Dustin wins.”
Her eyes grow serious. It isn’t a secret. Dustin told us all that he’s done being Alex’s bitch. Actually, that’s how Tommy put it. Dustin simply said he was done losing.
“No matter what, it’s all going to be okay.” My friend squeezes my hand again, and I suck the positivity from her body into mine, hoping it will last me for the next two hours.
I won’t leave this spot, but I don’t need to stare at the screen and analyze everything. That’s what my dad is here for, and apparently Bailey’s too. Instead of falling down the rabbit hole of worry, I build an idea folder on my phone for Bailey’s shower. She mentioned wanting to make the wedding a destination, but I think the parties should all be here where we can maximize the invites—aka the presents.
After an hour and a half, I’ve assembled the perfect balance that she seems to be on board with. A very tasteful brunch at a nearby winery for the shower, and a rodeo showdown up in Cave Creek with the girls for her bachelorette. The cowboys who ride the bull up there are real, and they are, well, often shirtless. Just wild enough for us but something we can probably get her mom to attend.
“Oooooh!” Both Bailey’s dad and mine are standing in front of the screen, hands on their head, blown away by Dustin’s latest move. I tuck my hands back under my thighs and give my full attention to the race now that twenty laps are left and Dustin has wrangled his way into third. The only way for him to come in eighth is to blow a tire at the last minute, giving five other cars time to edge in front of him before he crosses the line on rims.
“Alex has to know by now,” I say quietly, words meant for myself but that come out loud enough for Bailey to hear.
“It’s going to be okay,” she reassures.
I shift my weight, pushing my palms further under my body. I don’t bother nodding in agreement. I can’t lie about my uneasiness.
With fifteen to go, Dustin manages to slip into second, and there’s less than a car length between him and the leader. Unfortunately, the new kid—Quin—is only two cars behind him. With every move Dustin’s made, Quin’s made two, sometimes three. He had to pass most of the pack, and somehow, he did. He can’t be the novice everyone says he is. He just can’t.
At ten to go, Quin’s found a way into third, and I draw in a deep breath, one I can hold a lap at a time. This is where things get ugly. This is when Dustin usually goes black, where in the past he blocks out everything else and sees only the race, the competition—his target. Part of me hopes he’ll dig for that rage again now, not because I want him to give up on his pledge but because I’m afraid his new approach won’t be enough. I don’t want him to fail. I never want him to fail again. He’s had enough of that, and he’s earned this. He deserves it.
My dad turns the volume up so we can feel the anticipation live through the commentary and the hum of the crowd. Two hundred thousand people all pulling for one driver—my driver. Dustin’s the crowd favorite. He has been from Day One. He’s an everyman, and most people know his story. It’s been covered before, though not to the extent that Dale guy seems ready to write.
It’s hard not to root for the underdog, and even though Dustin’s God-given talent is undeniable, life’s always piled the odds against him.
But not today.
“Go! Go! Go!” My dad punches the air, and soon, Bailey’s dad joins him.