Brendon picks me up from the airport and takes us back to the hotel we're staying at for the race. His parents' house is an hour away from the city, so it's easier for him to stay at Windsor-provided lodging instead of making that commute.

Since I land late at night, we don't do anything except find a place to eat dinner. We settle for burgers and fries, stopping at a park to eat in the car. The weather is warmer than last time but not unbearable. Brendon plays music at a low volume to set the mood and keep us from plummeting into silence. Not that it's something we struggle with together. I like our silences.

By the following day, I wake for breakfast at his parents' house, trying not to overthink. Part of me wants to call Maverick to help talk some of the nerves out of me, especially since he's met Everleigh's family, but we haven't spoken yet.

I smooth my hands over my red sundress. It's light, a comfortable length, and the kind of dress that seems appropriate for meeting someone's family. But I throw a leather jacket over it because habits are hard to kill.

"What do we think?" I ask when Brendon arrives at my hotel room, giving him a spin. The flimsy material lifts into the air with the spin like waves circling me.

Unlike the last time, Brendon does let his eyes wander, tethering his gaze to the melodic movement. Even though I might be playing too close to the sun right now, I can't help but light up at the way his gaze appreciates me. Not as an object to obtain, but as a vision to explore.

"Beautiful. Mom will love it."

When we get into the car, Brendon rolls down the windows and lets the breeze carry us along the highway. Wind flowing in my hair, not a care in the world, I feel at ease, which is something I can appreciate.

At one point, I turn from looking out the window to catch Brendon watching me. Just for a second. But it's a second I want to replay over and over again.

When we arrive at his parents' house, the nerves flood back. I'm not sure why. It's not like we're dating. That's a different kind of terrifying I've only had to deal with once before and it didn't end well. We're just friends having brunch. His sister is a fan. No big deal.

"Shit." I try to turn around but Brendon stops me using his body as a shield. "I didn't bring anything. I should have brought something. Wine. Flowers. Something."

"You're a guest." He pushes me forward. "They're not expecting anything. Mom is also very picky about her wine."

"That's what they want you to think. Gonna think I'm some stuck-up American who doesn't have any manners."

"You're Hawaiian. They would never lump you in with that title."

I could kiss him right then and there.

"Are you saying they have a grudge against Americans then? 'Cause valid."

He laughs.

It's not a massive house but nice enough I can tell his family grew up comfortably, which makes sense considering how much money it takes to have a successful career in karting. I imagine Brendon as a little kid playing in the yard out front, driving around a toy car and yelling at his parents to watch him go. The vision is shattered when he puts his hand on the small of my back leading up to the steps. He knocks twice with the other before letting us in.

"Mom! Dad! Stacey!"

I remove my shoes before stepping inside and place them near the closet by the door. I remove my jacket as well and hang it up. As much as I love a good leather moment, sweating my ass off in front of them probably won't leave a good first impression.

A young girl comes rushing down the stairs and hops over the last few steps. Her hair is tied up high in a ponytail that swings back and forth as she bounces over to us.

"Hi, Stevie!" Standing in front of us, she's only a few inches shorter than me. I meet her eyes—bright, wild, free of worry. She picks up the end of her dress. More structured than mine but a similar pop of color. "We're twins!"

Her voice is much higher than his, but her face reminds me of Brendon. "Some girls just got it."

"What's that?" Brendon asks, his eyes squinting at her hands. It's only then I realize she's holding something behind her back. "You couldn't have waited until after breakfast?"
"Oh, bugger off." Stacey Ellis rolls her eyes. "It's not every day that my favorite singer is in our house, Bash. You can give me a break."

"Favorite? That's a high honor."

"It is." Stacey pulls her hand out from behind her back; a copy of the deluxe edition of Nuclear Fusion. "Not sure why you're even hanging out with this toad but if it gets me special privileges, so be it." Stacey smiles up at me. I take them in an instant. "Appreciate it, babe."

I laugh.

After signing her copy—and a mental note to have the rest of the band sign something for her—Brendon steps between us. "Put that away before I sell it on the internet."

"She's sweet," I comment as he guides us through the rest of the house.

"She's a better actor than either of us are. Will have you signing an entire box of CDs without realizing it."

The back doors open up to a sprawling yard, letting the smokey smell of the barbecue waft into the house. A table with an umbrella is set up on the front of the patio with five place settings.

"We're here," Brendon announces.

His father, listening to music with wireless headphones, continues flipping over grilled chicken. I take in his tall stature, like Brendon except with slimmer shoulders and a wider waist. His dark hair is perfectly speckled with grey and swoops back, the strands long and wavy.

"Is that the one and only Stevie?"

Brendon's mom walks toward us—hair tied away from her face, cheeks flushed with the faintest shade of peach, a trail of rose perfume following her every move—and I'm taken aback by her beauty.

Brendon's mom wraps her arms around me and presses a kiss onto each cheek. When the walking rose garden pulls back, warm golden light catches her eye at just the right angle to make her appear otherworldly.

I laugh nervously and step back out of habit. "I think there's another much more famous Stevie that would take offense to that. It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Ellis."

"Well, sure, but that Stevie isn't at my house so I think we're alright." She tucks a nonexistent loose piece of hair behind her ear. "Please, call me Diana."

"Diana," I repeat.

"I actually had a question for you." She directs me over to the table and pulls the chair out for me. Brendon slides around her, taking the seat to my right. Judging by the glasses placed near the other settings, Stacey will be sitting on my left. "I guess two, technically."

"Fire away."

"Do you like mimosas? We're a mimosa family."

I laugh, sparing a fleeting glance at the champagne flute across from me with only a sip of her drink left. With two bottles of champagne sitting in an ice bucket and a large glass pitcher on the side, I do not doubt that sentiment rings true.

"Love mimosas. It's all about the ratio."

Diana laughs along with me, the sound like wind chimes on a breezy afternoon. "Anything more than a splash is just juice, in my opinion."

After she hands me a flute with a perfectly-colored mimosa, I hold it up for us to cheers. "Couldn't agree more."

Brendon leans over the side of his chair to reach into a small cooler and pull out a bottle of sparkling water.

"I've always wondered what your last name is," Diana continues, taking her seat. Her hand rests gently against her collarbone, showing off her wedding ring. "If you don't mind me asking."

"I don't mind," I assure her. "It's Kealoha."

"That's a beautiful name," Diana awes. "What does it mean?"

"The loved one."

Maybe I'm overthinking, but this warm welcome is not what I was expecting. When Brendon told me his parents don't go to his races, I expected there to be more animosity. And perhaps I'm judging too quickly, but things are looking good so far. Even Brendon seems at ease.

It isn't until his dad makes his way over that I realize his mother isn't the main source of his adverse feelings. Maybe she's complicit. Maybe she's an enabler and puts on a good front. Or maybe she's unaware of the ways in which her husband and son don't get along. I can't be a judge of that.

But the way he tenses up as soon as his father turns around is a clear sign I pick up on right away. It doesn't appear inherently dangerous, but if there's any reason Brendon doesn't come home often, it's because of him. This is clear.

Diana places her hands on his arm. "This is my husband, Adam." She looks up at him with a perfect hostess smile. "This is Brendon's friend, Stevie. The singer we were telling you about."

Brendon and his father look nothing alike. It's almost striking how different they look. If I were to run into them together on the street, the last thing I would assume is they're father and son.

"Surprised you're here with Brendon," he laughs. "Stacey is the one that brings you up all the time. Says she's your biggest fan."

I clear my throat. "Think she'll have to fight for that title with my friend Leigh but I'm honored. Thank you for having me."

Adam doesn't reply, choosing to turn his head toward the house and yell "Stacey! Food is ready, get down here!"

...

"So, when is the next album dropping?" Stacey looks so hopeful I almost feel bad enough to give her an answer. "Mum and Dad are getting sick of me playing Nuclear Fusion over and over again."

"Maybe soon."

   She pokes her fork in my direction. "That means soon." Redirecting in her brother's direction, even though he's too busy staring at his food, Stacey shoves a demand at him. "If she invites you to listen to the album early, can you get me an invite?"

He flicks her an eyeroll. "Ask her yourself."

Stacey looks at me. "Can I come to your album listening party?"

"Say no," Brendon tells me.

"You're such a wanker."

"Stacey," Diana scolds. The matriarch flashes an apologetic smile at me. "Can't bring these muppets anywhere. They're always up to no good."

Brendon's been quiet for most of brunch, but he opens up with his sister. It's endearing, considering the tension between him and his dad who has yet to share more than a few words.

"It's cute. I'm an only child so—"

"Did your parents spoil you with all of the attention then?" Stacey asks with transparent envy.

"No," I laugh. "It just means they pay more attention to you. Much harder to sneak past my mom when I was trying to get into trouble."

"Was your dad easier on you?" Adam asks.

I clear my throat. "My dad passed away when I was young. Didn't get the chance to see my rebellious high school years."

Under the table, Brendon's pinky finger grazes the side of my wrist. A familiar touch to smooth away the unease.

"It's not a big deal," I quickly add when Diana's face drops. "It was a long time ago."

Brendon's parents don't have the same filters I've come to expect from most people who speak to me about my father.

"May I ask what happened?"

"Mom," Brendon states sharply."You don't need to answer that."

"Uh—" Adam looks stoically on at us. Neither encouraging nor discouraging of his wife. "He and his best friend—my uncle—were out at a bar one night and a fight broke out. My dad tried to break it up but..."

The ending doesn't need an explanation. Years later and it still doesn't feel quite like an ending. More like purgatory. A scene I never witnessed myself but still plays on repeat whenever I feel the ache of missing him. Diana takes the hint. At least she looks regretful for having asked in the first place. Brendon looks like he's ready to rip both of his parents a new one.

"Like I said," I add in an attempt to keep the mood from dropping into hell. "Long time ago. Please don't worry."

"Your mom must be proud," Diana pleads with a forced grin. "She raised a beautiful and accomplished daughter. How is she?"

God, this conversation is snowballing in the worst way possible. I can't blame her for not knowing every tragic detail about my family, so all I can do is return a tight-lipped smile. "She's doing great. Thank you."

"That's lovely to hear. Maybe she can make it out to a race someday."

Fat chance in hell that'll happen.

"How was testing?" Adam juts into the conversation. His flat tone means business.

Brendon straightens in his seat. "Windsor finished on top of all the sessions but all of the cars are still trying to find a way to minimize the porpoising. Geoff said it should be an easy fix. They're expecting it to be fine by practice on Friday."

"Porpoising?"

"The new regulations this year means the teams could try to produce more downforce with the floor of the car, right?" I nod, not understanding a single word. "When there's too much downforce, it can cause the car to push down on the suspension which runs the risk of stalling the airflow underneath. And when that happens, it creates a sudden loss of downforce so the car lifts back up again. But it's just a repetitive process so the cars basically look like they bounce going down the straights."

"Right."

There's a sparkle in his eye, filled with delight over my attempts at processing this information.

"I don't mean the car," Adam corrects.

Brendon shifts his attention back to his father. In an instant, his guard flies back up; his shoulders stiffen, eyes darken. If even the smallest of comments carry enough weight to send Brendon on high alert, I understand why he doesn't enjoy coming back home.

I don't think his father dislikes me but I wager he's indifferent toward me being here. It's clear Diana is the one that plays the role of eager hostess, even if she's a little misguided, while Adam comes off as reluctant.

"I don't know what you mean," Brendon replies in a tone that suggests he knows exactly what his dad means but doesn't want him to say it. "But if it is what I think you're going to say, I'd rather we just enjoy the meal instead."

"Because you hate hearing the truth?" His dad scoffs and tosses his dirty napkin onto the table next to his plate. "If you want things to end up like last year, then fine. You're going to be the one that has to settle for being second best."

"Only you would make second best sound like a death sentence." He places his fork onto his plate and pushes both aside. "Just because you raced twenty years ago doesn't mean you have any idea what it's like to race now."

"You don't need to be a driver to understand the dynamics of a Formula One team," Adam counters. His voice has an edge he's spent the past however many months away from his son sharpening.

"Please, enlighten us."

Diana and I take a sip of our mimosas, and when they run out, she wordlessly grabs my glass so she can give us refills.

"You always make excuses for this team," Adam replies, shaking his head. "Excuse after excuse and they continue to treat you like you're a second driver."

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Even last season, you could've won that last race but they forced you to give him the position even though you clearly had the better pace. They favor Idris every step of the way."

It's clear from Brendon's body language this isn't the first time they've had this conversation. Why his father feels the need to bring it up while I'm here is unknown to me, but maybe it's because Brendon spends so little time coming home that he thinks it's his only chance to force his opinions.

"I would appreciate if you stop enforcing your bystander opinions onto me and my team," Brendon replies.

"You haven't countered my claim."

"I don't need to. The footage of the race makes it clear my engine was starting to have a problem overheating, not to mention Idris was on fresher tyres and had a far better chance of catching up to Bruno. Switching positions was the best choice for the team."

Adam rolls his eyes. "Excuses. At this rate, you'll spend your entire time at this team making sure Idris gets another championship. And when they sign Rix you'll be another back-up to their other championship driver."

    "Please, let's hand over the team strategy to the guy that flunked out of F1."

"Brendon," Diana warns.

"What, Mom? He does this every single time. Acts like I don't know what I'm doing even though I have the stats to prove I'm one of the best on the grid. And I've gotten a hell of a lot farther than he ever has."

Adam scoffs.

"I don't think this is the appropriate time to—"

"That's always been your problem," Adam continues. "You see a gap in front of you and you don't go for it. Idris Johnson is getting old. His dominance is slipping. And, for some reason, you're not taking advantage of that."

"Careful, Dad. Someone might think you have a grudge against him."

"I don't give a fuck about Idris," he barks. "He's cruised to all of his championships because he's had the best car."

"Rich coming from someone who could never challenge him wheel-to-wheel. I find it hard to listen to you when you're criticizing the greatest driver in F1 history."

"And what will your legacy be, huh? Fade into oblivion as a sidekick while everyone remembers you as a pretty face who ends up in headlines next to a lead singer and her damn friends. If you spent less time going to concerts with them and more time working on your racecraft, you'd be calling yourself a champion at the end of the season, but I doubt that'll happen."

The tension in the air is so thick I would need a chainsaw to slice it in half. The three women sitting around the table exchange awkward glances while trying to pretend like brunch is simply brunch and not a precursor to a war neither of us are drafted into. My instinct is to reach across the short distance and hold his hand, reassure him I'm here and he doesn't need to march to an unpredictable outcome, but I also don't want to get between two people with whom there is an indescribable amount of history I am not privy to.

"I'm not having this conversation here," Brendon warns. "There's no need to discuss things like this every time I come here, especially when you're hosting a guest."

"I didn't invite her here. I don't care if she likes me or not. That's not my problem."

He doesn't even look at me when he says it, his words pass like he's unaware I'm here.

The chair scrapes back against the concrete with a sickening screech and I wince at the sharp sound, carefully observing as all eyes flash in my direction. I send Brendon the most apologetic smile I can muster, muttering how I need to take a call before bowing out of the backyard and through the house.

"You're unbelievable," I hear Brendon say before coasting away from their voices.

I'm sure leaving Brendon there by himself would look like a cowardice move from the outside, but I doubt he wants me to witness any unanticipated argument with his dad. To save us both the embarrassment and not get myself in the way of family matters, I remove myself from the equation.

I sit on the front steps of their house and stare out at the neighborhood. With its charm, it's hard to imagine not wanting to come back here as much as you can, but I guess that's the nature of family. It's hard to stay away and sometimes even harder to return, even when your heart begs you to.

It's probably not the most opportune time, but since I need something to do while I wait for Brendon to make whatever amends he needs to with his father—or something else; I'm not going to judge him either way for how he handles his business—I decide to listen to the voicemail Maverick left me late last night.

Maybe seeing how uncomfortable it is to be caught between two people arguing is what makes me call him back. I resign to the fact that I do not like existing in a world where I don't have Maverick as a friend I can call on.

He answers right away.

"Hi? Stevie?"

"Hi. So, um, I'm at Brendon's family's house and they're arguing 'cause his dad's a dick and now I'm sitting outside." I pause to catch my breath. "What's up?"

"I—um—I'm sitting outside Everleigh's flat...like, you know, an idiot." Maverick pauses. "Are you okay?"

"I had four mimosas so I'm good."

Maverick takes a second to respond. "I, well, that's good, but mostly...not what I meant, Stevie."

Realistically, this can go better but I hate having these conversations. I'm stubborn and spend too long overanalyzing every word that trips out of my mouth. If I could go back to normal with a snap of my fingers, I would.

I kick my foot out at a rock and watch it tumble down the steps. "I haven't read any of your texts. But I just listened to your voicemail. And didn't delete it. So there's that."

Since Maverick let it out in a voicemail—long-winded, rambly, chaotically apologetic in the ways only someone like Kingston Maverick can be—I expect this to be the Cliffs Notes version, which I'm fine with. I have no idea how long it'll be before Brendon comes out.

"I'm so sorry about New York, I was being an ass and you didn't deserve any of that. Ever. And that voicemail was...stupid and rambly, but please know I meant it."

"Even the part where you said you'd buy me ice cream next time we hang out?"

He definitely did not say that, but even when we're standing on opposite ends of the world—metaphorical and physical—we still find a way to be Stevie and Maverick.

Maverick lets out a small chuckle and I imagine him smiling down at his feet like the dork he is. "As much as you want."

        "Thank you. Also, I'm sorry for the slap. Not that I'm taking it back 'cause you deserved it but still. It looked like it hurt."

"I definitely did. Wicked right hook...or slap, Stevie. Well done."

"I guess we're lucky it wasn't Marty 'cause that would've been lights out."

"Would've deserved that, too."

"Did, um..." I clear my throat. "How did the whole thing with Rhylan go after we left?"

"Oh, great. I told her I think I'm in love. Got slapped again. Wonderful night, really."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I...got slapped again? Yours was harder, though—"

"I mean, thank you that's actually very sweet of you to say but you told her you're in love?"

"Considering I've been sitting outside this fucking door for—God, twelve hours, yeah I think that's...safe to say. Is that weird?"

Not weird at all. The most normal thing to come out of Maverick's mouth, which is saying something because he says a lot of weird shit.

"That's kind of super romantic but also just horribly planned. Don't you have her dad's phone number or something? Should have called to check when she got off the floor or something—"

"I...already went to the clinic. Given her reaction, I think we're glad her dad dropped me off here instead of dropping me off in a ditch somewhere."

"Not you showing up at her clinic—" I pause. Jokes aside, I understand the severity of this moment. In this supercut, the music stops, moviegoers stop eating their popcorn, and everyone has no choice but to watch it all unravel with bated breath. "She's very special, Mav. I hope you know that. Or else I might have to slap you again."

The sound of his laugh is what I imagine love sounds like. "Believe it or not, I don't sit for this long, all pathetic and whatever, for just anyone. And I still might get killed, so thanks for the apology, this may be my last day on earth."

"Should've made you fly to see me and sit on my doorstep for five hours." Knowing him, he'd have a warm bottle of apple juice in his hands and apologize profusely because he didn't realize it'd take so long for me to show up.

"I...probably would've. I'm sorry, man. That was stupid. I'm stupid."

"Yes," I agree, probably a little too quickly. "But there's a whole story attached to it that I'll tell you one day when we're not...sitting on our—er, these doorsteps. Or whatever."

"Yeah, don't think we're avoiding that you're at the Ellis family house right now. Want to talk about it?"

Even if I did, it's not entirely my story to tell, so Maverick will have to settle for the truncated version. "I probably can't say much but it's been a hell of a way to meet his parents. Just came here to use the ticket to the race that his sister couldn't go to anymore and—well, his dad read all about our trip to New York." Nervous laughter bubbles out of me. Not that his dad knows everything about New York, but part of me fears he's seen those headlines, too. "Doesn't like his son hanging out with some girl stuck in the headlines."

"He sounds like a dick."

"Maybe I should slap him."

"Might knock some sense into him."

I lean my head against the side of the house. "I've heard I've got a nice right hook."

"Got a Yelp page? Five stars for Stevie's right hook."

        "Watch out, they might send you a coupon for a 2-for-1 special."

Maverick laughs, "I'll take his dad out for lunch with it."

While I've been blanketed in outdoorsy silence since stepping outside, my bubble of solitude bursts at the sound of muffled voices coming closer. I assume it's Brendon and his mother. His father, I imagine, still sitting peacefully in his seat eating his breakfast like the unbothered man he is, content with his opinion even if it means driving those closest to him away.

"Listen," I return to the phone, "I think I hear Brendon coming but I just wanted to say that watching that circus of a breakfast made me realize I hate being mad at someone and I don't want it to eat away at me so I forgive you and hope you don't let yourself continue to feel bad about this. I promise I'm happy to move on and go back to normal. I hate not having you around."

It'd be too easy to stew in bitter anger over something someone has genuine regret over. Forgiving a deserving person for their mistakes is where we find peace.

"Best of luck, Stevie. I miss you. Let me know when you want to cash in your free ice cream. Love you."

"Love you, too," I reply. "Hope Everleigh doesn't kill you. I might help her bury the body if she does. Use your royalties to buy us both ice cream."

"Writing you out of my will as we speak." He pauses. "Stop avoiding your...Brendon." My Brendon. "Good luck. Talk to you later if I'm not dead."

"I'll get my ouija board just in case. Bye, Kingston."

As soon as I hang up the phone, Brendon emerges from the house with his head low and shoulders rigid against the backdrop of a picture-perfect home. The sun high in the sky no longer feels warm as I watch his defeated figure step further and further away from his childhood home until he walks past me into the car. I don't know why I feel compelled to wait for a few moments but I let him take some time for himself, staring blankly at the steering wheel until he places his head in his hands.

When I feel like I've waited long enough, I rise to my feet and dust my hands off on my dress. I turn around for a brief moment and catch Stacey peeking her head out from around the corner, a small figure staring back at me through the clear glass.

We give each other a small wave.

"Sorry you didn't get to kick my ass in Mario Kart," he says quietly.

I reach my hand across the console and hold his closed fist.