Page 76 of Break My Heart

Her brows lift. “Forever?”

“Yeah. Or until it breaks something, whichever comes first.”

She studies me for a second longer than necessary, something soft settling in her expression. “So you’re setting it free to make decisions.”

“No,” I correct, shaking my head. “I’m teaching it to follow rules.”

“And doing this makes you happy?”

I pause, fingers stilling on the keyboard. She doesn’t rush me. She never does. “It’s easier than other things in my life.”

“Like what? People?” Her hand comes up, brushing a piece of hair behind my ear in her familiar way.

I glance back at the screen, the cursor blinking like it’s waiting for an answer I don’t have. “People aren’t like this.”

“No,” she agrees gently. “They’re not. They’re infinitely more complex.”

After shaking myself out of my reverie, my throat feels tight. Leo’s hand has moved from bracing behind me while he looked at the data to rubbing up and down my back in comfort. I look at Leo. “That’s the part no one prepares you for when you’ve been doing what I do as long as I have.”

“What’s that?”

“That you can still understand something completely and still be powerless.”

“I appreciate that feeling far too well.”

Knowing what I do now about his childhood, I know he’s not just offering platitudes.

We shift gears and wrap up our testing. After, we move out toward the edge of the track with the late afternoon sun stretching long shadows across the asphalt. The air is quieter here, stripped down to what matters.

Leo sits beside me on the low barrier, elbows resting on his knees. He blurts out, “I’m not looking forward to Silverstone.”

“The British Grand Prix?”

He nods once. Then I put it together. “Home race nerves?”

“Not really.”

Recalling what he told me about his family, I know this is another time when he feels he’s not good enough. “Going back to Great Britain must be difficult. Do you think there’s a possibility you’ll see them?”

“I’m not worried about that.”

“You’re not?”

“They don’t come. Ever,” he continues. My brows skyrocket but before I can ask more questions, he mutters, “They’re so different from your family. No one tries to understand.”

My heart aches at what I realize was systematic emotional abuse of the man next to me. I reach for his hand and hold it, letting the silence pulse between us. “Do you think they follow you?”

“I’m certain,” he adds. “The results, the coverage—it’s too extensive.”

“But they won’t reach out to you?”

“No. I exist and I guess that’s been bad enough for them.”

“What about you? What’s enough for you?”

He exhales slowly. “For a long time? Escape.”

“And now?”