Page 44 of Formula Freedom
At one point, she finds a small wooden picture frame in the back of a drawer—an old photo of the three of us at the beach when we were maybe sixteen. Lance in the middle, his arm slung over each of our shoulders. I’m grinning like an idiot. Lara looks sun-kissed—full-body freckles proudly displayed, her hair in wet ringlets around her face. We all look so happy. She stares at it for a long beat, then places it face down on the nightstand without a word.
We finish in under an hour and I’m surprised at how little she actually has of her own. It’s just clothing and toiletries and a few pictures of family. The boxes and bags fit easily in the SUV, and she doesn’t leave a note behind. Just a clean sweep of the life she’s walking away from.
Before we leave, she reaches into her purse and removes a small bag. I’m surprised when she pulls out her engagement ring. I last saw it that night she showed up at my hotel—she obviously hasn’t worn it since.
Lara stares at it a long moment before placing the ring on the coffee table and walking out the door.
“You okay?” I ask as she settles into the passenger seat of the rental.
She gazes up at the second-story apartment she just vacated. “Yeah, actually. I mean, I moved in after we got engaged, but it never really felt like my home. That was all Lance.”
And now, she’s cut the last tie to him, as evidenced by leaving her engagement ring for him to find. It’s a harsh message she’s leaving and I hope it fucking hurts.
Torquay still looks exactly as I remember it—sun-bleached and sleepy, with low-slung surf shops, old brick cafés and narrow roads that wind toward the beach. The scent of salt in the air is like home to me and every third car has a board strapped to the roof. It’s the kind of town that slows your heartbeat the moment you arrive, where wetsuits hang like wind chimes on front porches and kids ride bikes barefoot without a care in the world.
It was the absolute best place to grow up and I miss it when I’m gone. I expect one day when I’m done with racing, this is where I’ll put down my own roots.
We go to the Candlish house—only one street over from my family home—and the place is empty and quiet. It’s a well-kept, two-story brick home set back on a neatly landscaped lot, with a wide veranda that wraps around the front and overlooks a garden filled with lavender and native grasses. The paint on the white trim is fresh, the front door a cheerful sage green. A swing bench creaks slightly in the breeze, and a set of worn but polished wooden rocking chairs flank the entry. Not flashy, but warm and solid—like everything I know about the Candlishes.
Lara unlocks the front door and I follow her in like it’s second nature. If she didn’t have her key, I know the spare is under a potted plant to the right of the door, just as I know the third step on the staircase creaks. I’ve spent hundreds of hours in this house, probably as much time as I did at my own. Likewise, Lara was at our house just as much, us kids bouncing back and forth between the two.
We carry everything to her bedroom, stacking the bags neatly along the wall. I do a slow turn, taking everything in. The room is exactly how I remember it—pale blue walls, a floral duvet faded from years of sunlight, and a cluttered old desk beneath the window, still covered in sketches and half-used notebooks. Lara’s surfboard is propped in the corner and fairy lights are strung across the curtain rod. I pause near the bookshelf, eyes catching on a crooked photo of the three of us—me, Lara and Lance—grinning after a beach day at Bells. It’s different from the photo she left behind at Lance’s apartment, but still the same—the three of us together. We took dozens of those photos over the years. Lara walks up beside me, makes a small hum of distress in her throat and reaches out to the frame. Just like the one back at the apartment, she turns it over, presumably because she doesn’t want to see Lance’s face. That works for me, because I don’t want to see it either.
Lara sits on the edge of the mattress and stares around, eyes scanning the room like she’s not sure what to feel. I take in the old, braided rug, a memory hitting me square in the chest. We sat side by side, backs against the bed while she tutored me in physics. I watched her scribble equations in that messy, looping handwriting and tried not to think about how good she smelled. She was brilliant, even back then. Stubborn as hell. And so damn full of light.
And yeah… I so had a thing for her.
“Everything’s exactly the same,” she murmurs. “It’s comforting.”
I stay quiet. Let her have the moment.
She leans over, reaches for a framed photo on the bedside table, stares at it and then turns it for me to see. It’s just the two of us, taken about four years ago. I was competing in a rally race in the United States, and she’d flown over with my parents to cheer me on. I won that race, and in the shot, she’s leaning against me in a sundress, laughing at something. God, we look carefree.
I take the picture from her and study it.
“We always looked good together,” I say with a lopsided grin. But truly, she’s the one who makes that picture shine. I take in her long red hair draped over shoulders dotted with freckles that multiplied under the summer sun. She used to hate them, bemoaned them all the time. But now she’s more poised and confident, and her makeup is always light so that they’re celebrated and not hidden.
“Ever wonder where we’d be right now if things had been different?”
I blink at her, then set the photo back on the table. “Different?”
She nods. “Us. I mean… if we had tried to make it work after that one night together. Would we have made it or maybe crashed and burned because of the stress?”
I sit down beside her, elbows resting on my knees. “I don’t know. I’ve thought about it though. Had all kinds of what-ifs.”
“Me too.” She exhales. “Even as I was accepting Lance’s ring, I was wonderingwhat if. God, that makes me sound so fickle.”
I chuckle. “You’re the least fickle person I know, and I think when you accepted Lance’s proposal, it was the right thing for you at the time.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. “I used to think you just didn’t want me.”
“I wanted you so much it scared the hell out of me,” I admit. “But I was afraid if I let myself fall for you, I’d mess it up. I’d get distracted. Or worse—I’d lose you to the lifestyle before I could ever hold on to you properly.”
She looks at me, eyes shining with humor. “I mean… if you think about it… that’s about as mature a decision as you’ll ever make in your life.”
I smile. “I wasn’t as wise then as I am now, but I think we’re right where we’re supposed to be at the exact right time.”
She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Well, good thing I’m wise enough for both of us.”
