GREENE | CS55

30 - Start/Finish

MAY 2020 | MONACO

The silence that followed was sure to end Pierce Greene. Days had passed with no updates bubbling to the surface about the absolution of Haas' Formula One team from the grips of Jim Greene's business portfolio. No further discussion, even within the team, past his sudden announcement.

Maybe the horror of the dry spell stemmed from the fact that Pierce had never been through anything like this before. There was no pre-set expectation on what Pierce had to prepare for—  emotionally, and in terms of her job (if she even had one left). Jim surely wasn't giving her any more hints past the information he'd already given her back in Zandvoort. Gunther was only focused on getting past the shock, internalizing it, and frantically managing his drivers until the next steps were made clear.

She supposed that Gunther was on to something with that way of thinking. After all, she is just a driver. These kinds of things, among many, were out of her control.

So when her plane touched down on the JFK runway for her brief stint at home, Pierce decided she'd let any stress roll to the back of her mind. She'd have to, if only for the sake of her cuticles, which had nearly been picked dry by the time her taxi dropped her off at the base of her apartment building.

The tips of her ponytail tickled the exposed bits of skin on her back as she physically shook the thought out of her mind, focusing on her breathing. On the meditation, of which she was about halfway through, lemon and patchouli sprayed across her mat invigorating her senses, pulling her sweat-laden body down into the foamy material protecting her from the lacquered studio flooring.

Even just a few days at home alone with Punk left Pierce feeling refreshed, recharged, and grateful. Grateful for the isolation, left with only her thoughts and the things about New York that would normally drive her insane. The humidity in the late Spring air, a mere warning in comparison to the heat that summer was known to bring. How no matter how beautiful she found Central Park to be, how it never ceased to invigorate her to her core as she navigated the various paths, there was always a slight twinge of horse droppings soiling the air.

Horse shit aside, this was her home. And was she ever grateful for the little zone of neutrality New York city provided Pierce from her day to day life. From Formula One, from racing, from politics— from all of it.

There was only one person she'd want to share this with. Her version of New York. The late night spots she frequented when her stocked fridge and sprawling kitchen weren't coaxing her to chef something up. The tailored apartment she had carefully tuned with a designing firm to make her own (and Punk, of course. The Doberman had more sway than Pierce could admit). One person that came to mind. The thought of him sent her internal organs into a spiral.

One day she'd invite him over, share her home with him, Pierce decided. Maybe he could fly Piñon over, Punk would love a friend. She was out for an evening walk with Punk, just tipping the final remnants of an iced latte against the heat of her tongue, when that person in particular happened to call her.

She smiled, answering the call, tugging on the rubber-wrapped headphones. "Shouldn't you be asleep? Isn't it midnight where you are?"

"Ah," His voice momentarily faded from the phone before returning. "Sorry mom, I meant to call someone else."

Pierce rolled her eyes at a tree, succumbing to the gleeful chime of Carlos' laughter filling her soul as if he wasn't a whole ocean away.

Carlos continued, "I couldn't sleep. I've been laying here for forever. I figured I'd bother you instead of staring at the wall pretending you are in it's place."