Page 51 of Formula Freedom
Lara tips her head back and laughs and I’m inspired to lean in and kiss her. She gasps, lets her tongue tangle with mine for a second and then leans away so her eyes can meet mine. “You think he’s right?” she asks.
I nod, not even pretending to hedge. “Yeah. I think he’s been right about a lot of things lately.”
She doesn’t answer but she doesn’t pull away either, so I kiss her again.
The sun hangs low in the sky now, and the surf rolls in slow, steady pulses. I’ve raced on five continents. I’ve faced down corners at 300 kilometers an hour. But this—sitting next to Lara, a little sunburned, a little wind-tousled, our fingers laced in the sand—this might be the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
I rest back on my elbows, watching the waves, when I hear footsteps crunching in the sand behind us.
“Excuse me? Sorry to interrupt,” a voice says.
I turn to find three people approaching—two guys and a woman, all in their twenties, wearing sun-faded Torquay Surf Club tees and sandy flip-flops. They’re grinning from ear to ear.
“Are you Reid Hemsworth?” one of the guys asks, already knowing the answer.
I sit up straighter and nod. “Yeah.”
The woman gasps. “Holy shit, we were at the Melbourne race! You were incredible.”
The other guy pulls out his phone. “Would you mind a photo? We won tickets in a contest through a local bar, and we were right near the Matterhorn paddock. Dude, it was epic.”
I smile and stand. “Yeah, of course.”
Lara rises with me, brushing off her shorts, and I can see the amusement dancing in her eyes. She offers to take the photo, and the three fans eagerly crowd around me, handing over their phones in succession as she snaps away. The woman insists on a selfie with just the two of us, gushing the entire time about how fast the car looked in Sector3.
“You’re a legend, man,” the first guy says as they head off. “Good luck in Suzuka. We’ll be cheering for you.”
“Thanks,” I say with a nod.
As they disappear down the beach, Lara watches them go, still smiling. Then she looks at me, something slightly awestruck in her expression.
“I mean, I know you’re famous,” she says, voice teasing. “But that was kind of surreal.”
“Comes with the job,” I reply with a smirk, nudging her shoulder.
“Still,” she murmurs, eyes distant now like she’s thinking it through. “It’s different seeing it up close. Like, you’re not just Reid, my neighborhood best friend who used to steal my cereal and make me laugh when I cried. You’re also that.”
Before I can answer, Carlos returns, holding three bottles of beer and a snack box cradled in one arm.
“Success!” he announces. “I bring drinks and something weird I’ve always wanted to try.”
He drops onto the towel beside us, opening the box to reveal an assortment of Aussie snack samples. The centerpiece is unmistakable.
“Vegemite,” he says, holding it up like it’s a trophy. “I’ve heard legends and now it’s time to see if it’s worthy.”
Lara and I exchange a look, twin expressions of dread and humor. Vegemite isn’t something you just “try”—it’s a rite of passage. A thick, salty, yeast-based spread made from leftover brewer’s extract, it’s beloved by Australians and feared by nearly everyone else. Eaten wrong—meaning anything more than a whisper-thin layer—it’s practically a war crime against your taste buds.
“You’re not going to like it,” I warn.
Carlos shrugs. “I’ve eaten fried grasshoppers in Mexico. How bad can this be?”
He takes a small cracker, smears the tiniest bit of the dark spread onto it, and pops it into his mouth.
For a moment, nothing.
Then his face contorts. His eyes water.
“Why would anyone do this to themselves?” he croaks.
