Until my Last Breath

91

Japan
2014

"Rio," Jules murmurs into my hair, bending down a little to meet my height. "You're holding onto me like I'm not coming back."

I don't say anything.
I just squeeze harder.

He chuckles softly. That kind of low, breathy laugh that means he knows I'm nervous.
I can feel it, too. The nerves in my stomach - all twisty and quiet. The way grown-ups get when they're trying not to show it.

"I'll be back with points," he says, kissing the side of my head. "And maybe even ice cream for dinner, if you're lucky."

I laugh at that, but it doesn't last long.
Because I feel it again - the unease. It creeps in with the sound of thunder.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. Really look.
Jules always does that - makes you feel like you're the only thing in the world for a moment.
I nod at him, and he smiles, brushing a bit of hair from my cheek. His hands are warm. He always runs warm.

He gives my ponytail a gentle tug. "Be good. Listen to Charles."

"D'accord," I whisper.

Just then, like he heard his name being spoken from a galaxy away, Charles slips in beside me. His race suit is half unzipped, the sleeves tied around his waist, and his hair's a mess under the hood of his jacket. He doesn't say anything - just nudges my shoulder slightly with his before pulling out his headphones.

I lean into his side. He's taller than me, but only a bit.
We both sit in the corner, backs against the crates of spare tires, legs pulled up. Watching.

Jules gives us one last wink, then turns around and jogs toward the pit lane.
And just like that, he's gone.
In his red and white suit, through the rain, past the shouting engineers and the blinking lights.

Charles puts his headphones on. I watch his knee bounce.
He taps it in time with the song only he can hear.

I stare through the gap in the barrier, past the crew, watching my uncle climb into the cockpit.
They close the visor.
And the world feels a little quieter.

My fingers dig into the hem of my jacket.
Something feels wrong. But I don't know what it is.
Not yet.

-
The engines scream.

Louder than thunder.
Louder than the rain.
The ground rumbles beneath my feet and for a moment - just one small, borrowed moment - I forget how scared I was.

Because he's out there.

And he's flying.

Water kicks up in sheets behind the tires, spraying in all directions like silver mist. The track glistens under the floodlights, a black snake winding through the downpour. But Jules is in it. He's in control.

I pull the headset over my ears tighter and lean forward, elbows on my knees, completely still - except when Charles nudges me again to point out something on the monitor.

"He went wide there," Charles murmurs, mouth half-full of biscuit crumbs.
"No," I shake my head. "That's the racing line in the wet. Jules told me."

He raises an eyebrow, then shrugs, chewing thoughtfully.

Lap after lap, I find myself easing into it - into the rhythm. The soft clicking of buttons from the pit wall, the occasional updates in French from the engineers, the collective breath we hold every time he rounds 130R.

It feels like this race is ours.

But then-

Something yellow.