Page 33 of Formula Chance

“Totally the alcohol,” I agree.

The conversation flows easier than ever, the sting of Jeddah fading with each laugh. The bitterness of our past dissipates with every memory we revisit.

“Why didn’t you come back to FI after the crash?” she asks, her tone curious but gentle.

I pause, my fork hovering over my plate. “Honestly?” I glance at her, and she nods. “I wasn’t ready. Mentally, I mean. After the crash… I don’t know, Bex. It messed me up.”

She sets her chopsticks down—she prefers them—and twists a little to face me. “Messed you up how?”

I shrug, picking up my glass and finishing the last swallow of the rum. She immediately pours a refill. “I didn’t trust myself anymore. Didn’t trust the car, the track, the team… anything. OWC felt safer, less pressure. Slightly less speed and danger. I needed to rebuild my confidence before I could even think about coming back to formula.”

She scoffs, shaking her head. “You? Not confident? Come on, Nash. You’re one of the most driven, fearless people I’ve ever known.”

Her words catch me off guard, and I feel a flicker of something warm and bittersweet in my chest. “Yeah, well,” I say, my voice quieter now, “I didn’t feel fearless back then. And honestly, I don’t know if I would’ve come back at all if Brienne hadn’t approached me.”

She raises an eyebrow, then takes a sip of her drink. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” I admit without an ounce of shame. “She gave me the push I needed. I wanted it—I missed it—but I didn’t know if I had the guts to take the chance.”

She stares at me, her expression unreadable. “Nash,” she says softly, “you’ve always had the guts. I guess you just needed someone to remind you.”

A thought strikes me, like a sharp punch straight through my chest. Because my tongue feels very loose given the alcohol, I throw it out there. “I would have returned sooner had we not broken up.”

Pain clouds her eyes and I rush to assure her. “I’m not blaming you. It’s just a fact. You would have made it easier.”

She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t—”

“You would have,” I cut in adamantly. “You would have given me that safe space to work through the demons, but you would have also pushed me to return once my injuries had healed. You would have known that was my deepest desire—to get back in a formula car—and you would have known that because I would have told you. You’re the only one I would have told, and then you wouldn’t have let me go to OWC. I know things would have played out differently.”

Bex’s head drops, her angel spun hair now dried and forming a curtain over her face. When she lifts it, I see regret plastered there. “I shouldn’t have let you walk out the door back in Vienna. I shouldn’t have let you chase me from your hospital room. So many things I didn’t do right.”

Her words mean a lot, but the conversation is turning heavy and sad, and I want to have a good time with Bex tonight. I want us to be friends again. So I grab my glass and say, “I’ll drink to that. It was totally your fault.”

She stares at me a moment, and I wonder if my joke is ill timed and way too soon to tease the way we always used to. Then she bursts out laughing so hard, she doubles to the side, placing her hand on my knee to balance herself. I freeze, the weight of her touch causing tingles to prickle all over my body.

Bex wheezes, straightens herself up and removes her hand. I have to force myself not to snatch it back. She shakes her head, still laughing, and takes her glass in hand. She taps it against my beer bottle. “Cheers.”

We both drink.

“All right,” I say, leaning against the couch, my belly full and my head swimming a bit. “Here’s a question for you, Toliver. If you weren’t in racing, what would you be doing?”

A thoughtful hum purrs in her throat as she swirls the amber liquid in her glass. “That’s easy. Probably working in some dull engineering firm, designing bridges or something equally uninspiring.”

“You?” I bark with a laugh. “Uninspired? Doubtful.”

“I’m serious!” she insists, putting her hand once again on my knee and giving a playful shove. “I’d probably wear boring gray suits every day and have some horrid boss who chews gum too loudly. And I’d spend every night dreaming about all the exciting things I could’ve done.”

“Like designing faster cars?” I tease with a lopsided grin.

“Exactly,” she says, pointing at me with her glass. “What about you? If you weren’t a driver?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” I say, stroking my hand over my jaw and giving her a smoldering look. “Male model.”

She bursts out laughing again, nearly spilling her drink. “Rubbish.”

“Seriously,” I reply, loving her mirth and not wanting it to end. “I’d walk the runways of Milan, Paris… maybe even dabble in cologne ads. ‘Eau de Nash.’”

She doubles over once more, clutching her stomach as she cackles. “You’d be awful! You can barely sit still for a formula marketing photo shoot, let alone walk in a straight line with a pouty face.”

---