Chapter 3

There was an old scar on my right wrist. Whenever the weather turned cold, it told me to grab a jacket before the forecast did.

The day I sorted through my papers, I found a yellowed acceptance letter for a training camp in a storage box. In the corner of the envelope was a racetrack curve I'd doodled when I was 17. Back then, I'd stuffed it in my backpack, eager to tell my father over dinner that I'd earned a spot in an advanced rally racing program.

But that dinner turned into a gathering of both families. Adam's grandfather, my father, and a whole group of company partners were all there. I was made to wear a white dress I could barely move in, and I was seated across from a young man four years older than me. My father poured me half a glass of grape juice and introduced him with a smile. "This is Adam. You two are going to be seeing a lot of each other."

Adam didn't shake my hand. He barely glanced up. I could tell he didn't want to be at that dinner any more than I did. For the next half hour, he barely said a word. At least he was honest about it. As everyone was leaving, he even made a face at me when no one was looking, as if we were both trapped.

Over the next few years, the two families got together more and more often. Whenever I brought up leaving California for training, my father would use our family's partnership with the Holt family to pressure me. He paid for my tuition, housing, and training. When I applied for a sponsorship, my father froze my training money. He even sold the car I'd saved up to modify.

I fought with him, and I even snuck off to race behind my family's back. One night when I got home late, he took my car keys and demanded to know whether I was going to put the family first or throw away my education and my future to "play with race cars." I had the nerve to slam the door and walk out, but not the means to support myself.

Adam was fighting what his family had planned for him too. He kept bringing his college classmate Vera to all kinds of social events. Vera was funny and outspoken, and she wasn't afraid to join him in talking back to those stuffy relatives. Everyone said they were a perfect couple. I even secretly envied them and thought they might be able to break free from what our two families wanted.

Later, Vera moved overseas, and Adam took over his family's business. We ended up seeing each other even more. He wasn't as cold as he'd been at first. He'd ask if I still drove. When people said, "The Grant girl is so quiet," he'd stand up for me. "She's not quiet at all when she's racing."

The winter I was 24, Adam and I went to a charity gala in the mountains. On the way back, a blizzard suddenly swept over the road. The cars ahead slammed on their brakes, and in an instant, there was a pileup. Our car skidded and flipped onto its side. The guardrail snapped, and the doors were jammed shut by twisted metal. The car creaked, and outside the windows I could see nothing but blowing snow.

A piece of metal had torn a big gash in Adam's shoulder. He reached out and held my head down to shield me from the flying glass. I was hurt too, but I could still move. I ripped off my scarf and pressed it hard against his wound, then felt around in the dark for the first aid kit. We had no idea when help would come. Our phones were down to one bar of battery, and our calls for help kept cutting in and out.

"Erin, don't fall asleep." Every so often he'd call my name, afraid I'd pass out.

"I'm awake." My frozen fingers tightened the bandage. "Stop talking. Save your strength."

"Do you still want to drive?" His voice was hoarse and broken.

"Yes."

"Then hang on. Once we get out, you can drive whatever you want and go wherever you want."

I wanted to tell him this wasn't the time for making wishes. But his hand held mine tight, like if he let go, I'd disappear into the snow for good. And I never stopped pressing on his wound.

We held on in the ice and snow until the next day. When the rescue workers carried me out of the car, I saw him lying on a stretcher, still checking to make sure I was safe. The injury left a permanent scar on my right wrist, and the long recovery kept me from accepting that year's training invitation.

A month after we got out of the hospital, Adam proposed to me in front of everyone from both families. His arm was still wrapped in bandages, and even getting down on one knee was hard for him. No one there forced me, but when I looked at his outstretched hand, I put mine in it anyway.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"I'm sure."

Back then, I was certain it was the first big decision in my life I'd made because I truly wanted to.

Now I was 37. I had kept the training camp letter safe, though its paper was creased with age. I packed the letter and helmet into a box and labeled it "Erin's personal belongings."

I heard Adam on the phone outside the door, telling his secretary I'd be coming with him to a business dinner this weekend, as if last night's fight had been a minor spat.

With my injured right hand, I picked up a pen and wrote "Not attending" at the bottom of my moving checklist.