Page 6 of Promise

Failure.

The one thing I promised never to do. I would not fail her. I tried my damnedest and had done my best, and yet I still hadn’t given her everything. I hadn’t been enough.

You’ll never amount to anything. My grandfather said it best, and his insults still haunt me in moments like this.

I blink at the image and run my thumb over her half of the photo. One of the happiest days of my life. Our wedding anniversary is approaching. Another marker of time.

What does one call a three-year itch after divorce?

The point where dissatisfaction still exists, and boredom might be setting in. When loneliness outweighs financial gain, racing goals, and getting ahead.

And the hurt still lingers. The healing didn’t come as I expected.

I sigh, toss my phone to the table, and scrub at my face, letting out a deep groan.

The simple motion rocks the camper on the back of my pickup truck. I didn’t own an RV like most of the other guys. I don’t stay in expensive hotels between races as some do. Every penny of my first few successes went one place, and I lived a frugal lifestyle thereafter.

The space isn’t large or lavish. The foam bed needs replacement, but there is no mending for the ache of lying on it alone each night, missing my home, missing Trin.

Pressing on the pop-up tabletop, I stand and reach for the mini fridge mere inches away. I retrieve a water bottle, crack the lid, and drain the cold liquid in one long gulp.

I need to hydrate. I need to focus.

I toss the empty bottle into the camper sink and pick up my ball cap. The one embroidered with my team’s name. Velocity.

Clicking the handle on the door, I step into the lot overflowing with expensive RVs and extensive trailers for hauling cars. The crew already has mine in the pit, waiting for my arrival.

The day feels exceptionally warm for late spring. Not officially summer yet.

My fire-retardant suit made out of Proban dangles open, the arms flowing like wings from my waist. Safety standards vary in the racing industry, but my team is strict about protection. The fire-resistant material they require for socks and shoes, suit and helmet, doesn’t eliminate burns but cuts down on their potential damage.

For some reason, the suit feels itchy today, despite not being fully on yet. The white tank I wear underneath the one-piece outfit is already damp. A combination of nerves and memories.

Before every race, I wish Trinity were here, selfishly wanting her to see how far I’ve come.

I doubt she cares about the race, though. Or me anymore.

Closing my eyes, I try to center myself, taking a deep breath of the atmosphere around me.

NASCAR feels less like attending a sporting event and more like entering a living, roaring machine.

You hear it before you see it.

Even from the parking lot, the low thunder of engines in pre-race checks is like distant storm clouds. The air smells of gasoline, hot rubber, sunscreen, and grilled burgers.

In the fan lot, coolers undoubtedly thump against tailgates. Race day visitors wearing car logoed tees and faded caps will cheer loudly and razz other fans, all in the spirit of the sport.

Concession stands and food trucks gear up for rowdy race enthusiasts eager for beer, brats, and speeding cars.

Ah, race day. Nothing like it.

Forever. The word whispers through my head, reminding me of something infinitely better than any race.

Shrugging into my suit, I zip up the front and tug on the ball cap. The closer I get to the arena, the heavier the sound grows, deepening until it vibrates through my ribs. The grandstands rise ahead, massive and metallic, shimmering in the early sunlight. Somewhere in the distance, a speaker crackles with pre-race commentary.

I weave my way through the crowd, finding my team, my pit. On autopilot, I go through routine checkpoints and pep talks before slipping into the Chevrolet Camaro ZL1. The red exterior with a yellow stripe is a beauty, but that strip of sunshine color reminds me of a certain blonde today.

I shake the thought and settle behind the wheel, engine purring around me, vibrating up my shins and over my knees, filling my belly and matching the thunder in my chest. My fingers flex and fist, gripping the steering wheel a second and third time before I exit the pit and pull into position.