1 I had worked on Ronan Shaw’s cars for seven years. From the days when my phone was always smeared with motor oil to the day I became one of the top custom tuners in the country, I was there for all of it. The year he won the national championship, I asked him once, “Can I sit in your passenger seat just one time? Just one run down Mount Akina?” He didn’t even stop wiping his wrench. “Racing is dangerous. You get carsick. Not suitable.” I said okay. And I never asked again. Until last night, when I was fixing his computer and a hidden cloud folder popped up. Inside was a video. In the video, he was taking his first love, Celine Rowe, on a high-speed drift through a mountain road. Celine sat in the passenger seat screaming and laughing, while he controlled the wheel with one hand and gripped hers tightly with the other. The caption read: “The fastest heartbeat belongs to the girl I love most.” I closed the laptop gently. At dawn, I tuned his engine one last time as usual. Then I submitted my resignation from the team and signed a base-salary contract with an overseas racing team. Seven years. I was done waiting for his passenger seat. I was going to hold the steering wheel myself. … “Hex wrench. Hand it to me.” I slid halfway out from under the car and reached blindly. Ronan was standing near the hood, head lowered as he replied to messages. He didn’t spare me so much as a glance. The new apprentice fumbled and shoved the tool into my hand. “I stiffened the left front suspension damping by two clicks,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my oil-stained hand. “The Velocity Cup qualifiers are the day after tomorrow. Don’t cut the corners too tight. The tires will slide.” Ronan finally tucked his phone into the pocket of his racing suit. He walked to the driver’s door, glanced with disgust at the spot I had just touched, and wiped it with his sleeve. “Got it. Your parameters have gotten more and more conservative lately.” “Conservative keeps you alive.” “Enough. You always use that to pressure me.” He opened the door. “I’m going to test the south mountain route later. I won’t be back tonight.” “Okay.” My quick answer made his hand pause on the seat belt. Before, whenever he ran the mountain roads at night, I would argue with him until the very last second. I checked the spare tires three times, attached a tracker to his helmet, and placed a bottle of the ice water he liked in the passenger seat. Today, I just packed the toolbox without looking at him. “What’s wrong with you today? Cat got your tongue?” He tapped the window with a frown. “I’m a little tired.” “You sit in the garage all day and never see the sun. Your body just lacks exercise.” The passenger-side glove compartment hadn’t been shut properly. A flash of pink slid out. It was a tiny rabbit-shaped air freshener. Ronan hated any scent in his car. Once, I put in a lemongrass charcoal deodorizer, and he threw it out the window. My phone lit up on the workbench. A notification popped up. Sender: Celine. “Ronan, remember to take me on the mountain run tonight. I’m already waiting at the south route entrance!” Ronan snatched up the phone fast. The screen light reflected the excitement in his eyes. He replied with one hand, not even fastening his seat belt properly. “Sponsor contact?” I asked, staring at the pink air freshener. He flipped the phone screen-down. “Yeah. Celine Rowe. The company’s new navigator. She just came back from abroad. I’m taking her to familiarize her with the route.” “A navigator doesn’t need to sit in the passenger seat for a night mountain run.” “Theory is theory. Practice is practice. You don’t understand racing, so stop ordering people around.” I watched him start the engine. The V8 engine I had refined thousands of times roared perfectly. But all I felt now was that it was loud. “Ronan.” “What now?” His face was full of impatience. “Do you remember what next Wednesday is?” He revved the engine. “Next Wednesday? Sponsors are coming to watch the test drive. What about it?” “Nothing.” Next Wednesday was the seventh anniversary of the day we founded the team together. Seven years ago, he had crashed. I dug him out of the wrecked car with my bare hands. He told me, “For the rest of my life, my passenger seat will always be yours.” He had forgotten completely. “I’m leaving. Don’t wait up.” The sports car shot out. The garage fell back into dead silence. I walked to the computer, opened the resignation email I had written the night before, and clicked send. Then I opened another page in English and confirmed my base-salary driver contract with a foreign Dakar Rally team. Seven days later, I would fly to that deathly desert. My phone vibrated in my pocket. My best friend, Tessa Cole, called. “I saw your resignation email. Are you insane? You’re just handing him seven years of your work?” “The team contract was always under his name. I can’t take it with me.” “And what about that bastard Ronan? You’re just letting him and that first-love drama queen have their happy ending?” “Trash belongs in the trash can.” I looked at the oil stain still on the floor. “Tessa, have you ever seen him drift one-handed?” “What?” “It’s cool. Even the smile at the corner of his eyes is arrogant.” I threw the bloodied gauze into the trash. “Too bad he was showing off for Celine.” The next morning, I called a truck from the recycling station and started clearing out every trace of myself from the garage. The custom wrenches hanging on the wall had been saved up one by one over the years. I had scrimped and saved to buy them. I told the workers to pack them all up and weigh them as scrap metal. The rest room was tiny. Just a single bed and a wardrobe. The wardrobe was filled with his racing suits, fireproof masks, and jeans that would never lose the smell of oil. My belongings were only a few faded T-shirts. I stuffed them into my backpack. In the corner sat a glossy black carbon-fiber helmet. He had bought it after winning a divisional championship and said he would take me for a drive. I picked it up. On the lining inside, someone had drawn an ugly little turtle in marker. Beside it were the letters C.R. Celine Rowe. I grabbed a hammer, smashed the visor, and kicked it into the trash pile. At three in the afternoon, the screech of brakes sounded outside the rolling shutter. Ronan walked in carrying a shopping bag. He smelled faintly sweet, like the rabbit air freshener from last night. He looked around at the empty tool wall. “Where did you put the wrenches?” “They were rusty. Sold them as scrap.” “The qualifiers are almost here and you sold the tools? What the hell has gotten into you lately?” “I won’t need them anymore.” He tossed the shopping bag onto my workbench. “I stayed up all night, and when I get back there isn’t even hot water waiting. Are you deliberately picking a fight?” “There’s water in the dispenser. You can pour it yourself.” He kicked over an empty oil drum. “Willa Lane! Who are you putting on this dead face for?” “I’m not.” “You’re not? Then what is this cold war? Yesterday I posted on social media and you didn’t even like it.” I looked at the corner of the item peeking out of the shopping bag. A pair of women’s Alpinestars racing gloves. XS. White and pink. Celine’s favorite colors. Her size too. “Are these gloves for me?” He froze and quickly reached to cover them. “No. Sponsor sample. Wrong size. Your hands are small, so I brought them back.” “I don’t wear pink.” His face immediately darkened. “You went through my bag? Celine made my navigation notes. I got her something in return. What’s wrong with that? Do you have to be so petty?” “I only said I don’t wear pink. I didn’t mention her name.” “The way you talk in circles is disgusting.” He irritably tugged open the zipper of his racing suit. “She’s a navigator. She needs to protect her hands for work. Is it wrong for me to take care of a colleague?” “You take very good care of her.” I stood and wiped my hands clean. “Ronan, I’ve locked all the suspension settings on this car. Find someone else to tune it.” “Willa Lane, try walking out of this garage today!” He exploded behind me. “I came back dead tired. Can you be sensible for once? Don’t make me feel like I raised an ungrateful stray for seven years.” Sensible. I gave up my path as a racer for him and ruined my neck staying up to tune his cars. In the end, I was an ungrateful stray. I shouldered my bag and walked into the wind without looking back. Over the next two days, I cut off every connection with the team. I closed the joint account, listed the air purifier on a secondhand site, and left the garage key on the workbench. Ronan noticed none of it. He only thought I was playing hard to get, that I had finally learned not to interfere with him. On Friday morning, he wore a newly customized team uniform and leaned against the car door, smoking. “Tonight Celine officially signs with the team. We booked Blue Harbor for her welcome dinner. You’re coming with me.” “What would I go for?” “Haven’t you always complained that the team dinners don’t include you? Sponsors will be there tonight. Go see the world for once. Don’t spend every day dressed like a mechanic.” Before, when I begged him to take me to meet people in the industry so I could help him secure sponsorships, he said: “They’re all important people. You’d embarrass me if you showed up smelling like oil.” Now he wanted me there because Celine was the star of the night. And he needed an audience. “Fine.” I might as well watch the whole show with my own eyes. At eight that night, inside the VIP room at Blue Harbor. When the door opened, over a dozen drivers and sponsors were already seated. Celine sat in the main seat, wearing a tight motorcycle suit and the pink Alpinestars gloves. “Ronan, Willa’s here!” She immediately stood and came toward me with a bright smile. “Hi, Willa. Ronan said you usually never leave the garage. What a rare guest.” She reached out to shake my hand. I did not move. “Congratulations on joining the team,” I said lightly. The laughter in the room paused for a second. Ronan yanked me aside and lowered his voice. “Don’t embarrass me tonight.” After a few rounds of drinks, every conversation circled around Ronan and Celine. One sponsor raised his glass and laughed. “Ronan, you’ve finally found your soulmate. That south route video last night was insane. That drift through the curve was silky smooth. Celine is the perfect navigator.” Celine covered her mouth and smiled. “It was all Ronan. That death curve last night nearly made my heart stop. Ronan held the wheel with one hand and held my hand with the other. He told me, ‘I’m here. Close your eyes.’ At that moment, I really felt like my life was worth placing in his hands.” The whole table erupted in teasing. Ronan laughed along, his gaze indulgent and without the slightest attempt to avoid suspicion. I stared at the strong liquor in front of me. Death curve. When he first ran that route years ago, a storm made him lose control. I lay in the mud for three hours, blocking the fuel tank that was about to explode, and dragged him out with my own hands. What he gave me back then was: “Get lost. Don’t block my way.” So he did know how to say, I’m here. “Willa, don’t you usually take care of Ronan?” Celine suddenly turned to me. “Ronan has an old waist injury. Yesterday I saw him get on the track without a support belt and felt so bad for him. You’re his mechanic. How could you miss a detail like that?” Her tone was sweet. Her words landed like a slap. The table went quiet. “You mean the old injury on his waist?” I looked up at her. Celine froze. I picked up the glass and slowly rubbed the rim with my fingertips. “That injury was from a rollover on the south route six years ago. Compression fracture of the third lumbar vertebra. He couldn’t bear weight for six months after surgery. It aches on rainy days. Yes, he should wear a support belt, but not only when you suddenly remember during a low-intensity route test.” The room fell completely silent. I looked at the pink gloves on her hands. “If you truly cared about him, you should have reminded him to slow down while you were in the passenger seat yesterday, not closed your eyes at the death curve.” Celine’s smile stiffened. I continued, “A navigator doesn’t sit in the passenger seat waiting to be protected. Route notes, braking points, entry speed, exit angle. If you misjudge any of them, the person crippled won’t only be the driver.” Her eyes instantly reddened. “Willa, I was only worried about Ronan. Why would you say that to me…” Ronan snatched the glass from my hand and slammed it onto the table. “Celine just joined the team. She doesn’t understand these things yet. Did you have to humiliate her in front of everyone?” I looked at the way he stood protectively in front of her and suddenly found it funny. “If she doesn’t understand, she can learn. But you know perfectly well you have an old injury, and you still risked your life acting out some romantic scene with her. Ronan, if one day you end up disabled, don’t blame anyone for not warning you.” Celine’s tears finally fell. Ronan laughed from sheer fury. “Are you cursing me?” “I’m just telling the truth the way you like to.” “Willa Lane! Are you insane?” Ronan shot to his feet. “Everyone came out to have fun, and you have to act like a shrew and ruin the mood?” “I ruined the mood?” I grabbed the ice bucket from the table and poured it out without hesitation. Ice water mixed with alcohol splashed across the fruit platter in front of Celine and soaked her clothes. “Ah!” Celine screamed and jumped up. “That,” I said, dropping the bucket, “is ruining the mood.” Under everyone’s stunned gaze, I opened the door and left. Seven years of rotten debt ended there. That night, Ronan did not come looking for me. At two in the morning, Celine posted a photo. Ronan was draping his jacket over her shoulders. The caption read: “Someone was afraid I’d get cold and insisted on staying with me until now.” I looked at the photo, and the last absurd thought in my heart went out. In seven years, it wasn’t that he didn’t understand tenderness. He just refused to give it to me. The next afternoon, Ronan kicked open the garage door. He reeked of smoke and alcohol, his eyes dark. “You got bold last night, huh? Embarrassing me in front of all the sponsors?” I was at the computer checking visa documents for the overseas team. I ignored him. “Are you deaf?” He strode over and yanked out the power cord. The screen went black. I leaned back in my chair. “What do you want?” He pulled a card from his pocket and threw it onto the desk. “Stop playing hard to get. I know what you’re mad about. Celine stole your spotlight, right?” He pointed to the card. “Next Wednesday. Passenger-seat experience for the Velocity Cup exhibition race. The organizers originally reserved it for Celine, but I went through a lot of trouble to get it for you. Didn’t you always want to sit in my passenger seat? Here.” I lowered my eyes. It was the main event of the national live broadcast. Every camera would be aimed at that car. He was tossing me the chance originally meant for Celine’s publicity like a handout. “You don’t want it?” He sneered. “Willa Lane, don’t be ungrateful. Do you know how many people would fight for this spot? I only made Celine give it up for you because of our seventh anniversary.” “You wronged her,” I said, looking up. “What?” “I said, give the spot back to her. I find it dirty.” Ronan’s face turned livid. “Willa Lane! I’m giving you a way out and you insist on making this ugly? You think my car can’t race without you? Who do you think you are?” “Who I am isn’t important. The door is over there. Close it on your way out.” He kicked over the jack beside him. Metal crashed heavily against the floor. “Fine. Don’t regret it. When the time comes, even if you kneel and beg me, I won’t let you touch my car again.” He slammed the door and left. I bent down to set the jack upright. My knee knocked against the floor and bruised. But compared to giving up my racing dream, this little pain was nothing. Next Wednesday was also the day my resignation officially took effect. The day I left for Dakar. I dragged my black suitcase to the international airport. My flight was at four in the afternoon. On the huge screen in the waiting area, the Velocity Cup exhibition race was being broadcast live. The commentator’s voice nearly broke with excitement. “Ronan Shaw has appeared! Ronan is in peak condition today! Viewers, please look at his passenger seat!” The camera zoomed in. Inside the red-and-black top-tier race car, Ronan sat in the driver’s seat. And in his passenger seat sat a woman wearing a pink helmet and a tight racing suit. Celine. She formed a heart at the camera while Ronan leaned over and personally tightened her seat belt. I looked at the screen and suddenly smiled. So the so-called seat he gave me had been a lie from start to finish. He no longer even bothered to lie properly. “They look so in love. Is that Ronan’s girlfriend?” two young women beside me whispered. “Definitely. A driver’s passenger seat is his life. Only his wife gets to sit there.” The boarding announcement for Paris sounded over the speakers. I tore the old team pass from my neck, the one I had kept for seven years, and threw it into the recycling bin. At the gate, I checked in. The plane rushed into the sky. At thirty thousand feet, there was no reek of engine oil, no roar of motors. Ronan, someone else is sitting in your precious passenger seat now. And I am going to hold the steering wheel that truly belongs to me.
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