Page 22 of When Hearts Surrender

I maneuver the car into another strategic position as I hang a sharp right onto West Street. The car hydroplanes and drifts, the burned rubber smell of the tires scraping the wet pavement fills the air.

This is where the fun begins.

Her eyes snap open as the world flies around us in a blur of lights and sounds.

“You’re holding my hand! What the fuck? Why are you holding my hand?Don’t you need it to drive?”

“Technically, you held onto it and never let go. I only meant to reassure you when the race started.”

She drops my hand like she’s burned and claws the center console.

“Careful there, that’s the juice.”

“What juice? Why are you thinking of juice right now?” She lets out a squeak.

Seeing a clear path with no cars, I hit the tiny red button her hand was close to and the engine’s roar transforms into a thunderous bellow, my hands gripping on the vibrating steering wheel as we’re thrown to the backs of our seats.

She screams, her hands covering her eyes. “Forget I asked! What’s this smell? Is there an issue with the car? We’re crashing, aren’t we?”

“It’s nitrous oxide,” I holler above the noise. “That’s the juice.”

The dark waters of the Hudson River to our left blur into a sea of black as we speed past the High Line, Hudson Yards, and other glittering, iconic buildings, my car at one with my movements, handling the road, the unpredictable weather, the other racers, and the traffic effortlessly.

“I don’t think I can ever look at juice the same way again. I’m going to throw up.” She mutters something else under her breath.

“Open your eyes!”

“What!”

“Feel the speed, the freedom! Open your eyes!”

“No freakin’ way! You’recrazy!” She clenches the door handle, her eyes squeezed shut so tightly they appear to be glued together.

“Year of yeses, right?” I toss her words back at her as we whiz down the street and I see 44thStreet ahead.

Adrenaline races through me as the car reaches maximum speed.

Almost there.Sweat gathers on the back of my neck and I fake a right to the racer next to me. He slams on the brake as I straighten the car, my hand shifting gears, listening to the engine sing its beautiful melody to me, the purring a masterpiece that’s as lovely as classical music.

Fuck yes.

Anna is silent as I make the last right on 44thStreet, minutes away from the finish line in front of Grand Central Terminal.

Glancing at her, I find her eyes wide open, her mouth forming a cute little “O.” She’s sitting up and clearly marveling the streaks of golden lights from the streetlights cascading with the neon colors of various signage—real life avant-garde art one can only experience in the thrill of the race.

Grinning, I spot the race girls holding up red flares in front of us—the finish line. An enormous crowd is gathered on the sidewalks and I speed right past them, my foot lifting off the accelerator, and the car slowly cruises to a stop as I hear cheers erupt behind me.

My body is on fire—a glorious high from the race, the beautiful woman sitting in my car, and me taunting my old friend, death. It’s the feeling I’ve been missing this past year.

I’m a victor, not a loser.

I’m not broken.

“So, what do you think?” I ask.

I shift the car into park, watching the crowd running toward us in the rearview mirror.

Her panting breaths are loud in the silence. She turns toward me, her mouth still propped open. “You’reabsolutelyinsane.”

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