BRENDON
2018

One of the more perplexing conundrums of my life is how I find myself at so many parties when I hate them.

The simple answer is that my friends drag me to them, especially when I'm back in LA during the F1 summer break. The more complicated answer is that while I love being in LA, I still often feel like I'm just a message in a bottle that's been lost at sea, waiting for someone to crack me open and realize I have something to say.

It's a paradox to feel like you're alone in a room full of people.

Scout Dancy shoves a cup of some unknown drink in my hands. If it were anyone else, I'd immediately toss the drink aside, but it's Scout and he's one of those good guys everybody trusts. Fortunately for him, his visit from across the pond—London, of course—is going much more smoothly than mine seems to be. Then again, this is Scout we're talking about. He fits in anywhere.

He doesn't notice the hypnotized stares of the women that walk by as soon as he starts talking, attuned to his accent even from only a passing glance.

"Mate, you look green."

"Thanks." I take a hesitant sip and fight back a grimace. I hate vodka. "Remind me why I'm here again."

Scout tosses his arm around my shoulder and drags me into the crowd. Clouds of smoke dissipate before my eyes and voices turn to static the further into the party I go. None of it quite registers to me the way it should, soaking up the nightlife and all that, and I find myself already itching to make a stealthy escape as soon as I can sneak away.

"We are here to celebrate getting your first win during your rookie year in F1 and help with the house hunting."

I look around. "How is being at a party going to help me find a house?"

"Please insert whatever answer suits my narrative." Scout laughs as I shove him off. "Honestly, though. You dragged that tractor across the finish line. P1, no less. Enjoy the summer break. You earned it."

Easier said than done. Generally speaking, I like to think of myself as someone who can live in the moment and forget all of my problems, even if it's just for one night. But when something as monumental as my first race win in F1 happens while my family sits at home because my father has found yet another reason to criticize me, it makes it difficult to want to celebrate.

Not even a congratulatory text after the race. Just an if you hadn't locked up in that one lap, you would've kept the fastest lap too. Fucking prick.

"I'll do my best."

"Cheers, mate," he says once we're fully submerged into the crowd, knocking his cup against mine so the liquid inside nearly sloshes over the rim.

The rest of our drinks go down the hatch, and I fight against the internal burn as we go through the motions of enjoying the party, his actions more authentic than mine. It suits him, the whole happy-go-lucky vibe. Brooding and elusive enigma is the archetype assigned to my personality in Formula One, not by any real design of my own. Sure, I'm not the most social driver out there, but it's not because I'm trying to hide anything for the sake of mystery. I prefer not to have strangers on the internet perceive me in ways completely out of my control as much as possible, and I like to think of it as a way of shielding those around me from having to suffer the burns of a spotlight. The people in my life didn't sign up for public life. That's why my ex-girlfriend broke up with me as soon as I signed with Windsor. She didn't want to deal with the implications of a relationship with someone likely to have some level of celebrity, even if I loathe that term. I don't blame her for it.

Scout convinces me to dance, which is no easy feat, though he's quickly swept away by a pretty face in the crowd. An easy distraction from his less-than-ideal finish at the last race. Either he really is that level-headed over losing or he's just a really good actor. From anyone else's point of view, he's just having a good time. Maybe it's entirely possible to have a good time while you're sad about something else. I'm still working on that.

As soon as Scout's attention has drifted elsewhere, I find myself slipping further and further to the side until I hit a wall. (Almost literally.)

"That was a really good last race," I hear someone say, their words peeking out at me through the pounding baseline thrumming throughout the house.

Since he seems to have acquired an elusive bar stool in this god-forsaken party, the first thing I notice is the pillowy head of curls as it's eye-level with me. They're so crowded on his head that the tendrils that hang over his forehead allow him to hide behind his already guarded pose on the outskirts of the crowd. With one leg up, he rests a bottle of water on his knee. His back is pressed against the wall, neither trying to sink into it like he's trying to escape nor itching to propel himself back into the party. He's enjoying himself without wanting to be anywhere near the center of attention.

"Thanks," I reply. I'm still getting used to the idea of people knowing who I am before I introduce myself, so like a loser, I add, "I'm Brendon."

He laughs. "Yeah, I know." After surveying the crowd one more time, he turns to me with his hand outstretched. "I'm Rami."

"Nice to meet you. Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar."

Visiting Los Angeles is a constant record scratch of deja vu. Everywhere I turn, there's another face that looks like another face. It's hard to tell if it's because so many people vying for a sliver of the spotlight try so hard to mold themselves into the same successful physical formula or because I genuinely know a thing about them.

"I'm the drummer for MARS? If you've heard of us. Abstract Blue."

No shit. Obviously I know him. Know of him and the rest of his band. The lead single of their debut album Nuclear Fusion has been on repeat ever since it dropped a few months ago. They're already supposed to be going on tour in a couple more, starting with North America, and I've been trying to convince someone to come to one of their shows with me.

Although, to be honest, I'll go by myself if I have to. Consider it a housewarming gift to myself, assuming I'm able to find a place by then. I think I saw that some of the dates line up between race weekends.

It's been a while since I've connected to an album as I have with Nuclear Fusion. MARS practically came out of nowhere and demanded the top of every music chart like they were born for it. I'd be hard-pressed to think of another act in recent years that has had a debut as impactful as they have.

"Uh, yeah. I have."

Rami laughs. "Not really your scene?"

"It's been peer-pressured onto me." I wait for a beat. "Joking."

"But not really."

"It was a gentle suggestion made several times. I'm still a willing participant."

"Sure." He nods.

Angling his body around, he looks toward the stairs leading upstairs which has been designated as off-limits to all of the party guests, and by some miracle, most people seem to be listening. I've only seen a couple of people go upstairs and it looked like a dire if I don't find an open bathroom right now, I will piss myself situation. I don't blame them. The line for the bathroom is always absurdly long at the worst time. I'm just lucky I have the equipment to go anywhere.

"My friend went up there about a half hour ago to lie down and she hasn't been dragged down and tossed outside so I think you'll be fine if you want to take a break."

Honestly, nothing sounds better than a break right now. I'm constantly surrounded by people at my job. Everyone needs a good break from the rest of the world every once in a while.

"Is that smart?" I ask. "Being up there by herself."

"Stevie has a mean right hook," Rami replies. "And she's been texting me. Jun went up there about ten minutes ago to check on her, too."

"Right."

Deciding to pull a Stevie, I check my surroundings so as to not be intercepted by one Scout Dancy. With the coast clear, I give Rami a salute before sneaking my way upstairs.

...

I have no intention of running into anyone else, despite Rami's mention of his friend also seeking refuge upstairs, but it feels inevitable when I find her in the room furthest away from the stairs.

More specifically, I find her on the roof right outside the window of the room furthest away from the stairs. And she looks a little more wobbly than I'm comfortable with, even for a stranger I only know by song association.

"Woah," I say as I rush out onto the roof next to her, grabbing onto her elbow before she leans too far to the side. Not that it's the riskiest move since the house has a modern design and the roof itself is flat, but my instincts go into overdrive as soon as I look past the ledge where the night sky takes control of the backdrop. The thought of her stumbling over sends me into a fright. "You alright there?"

She tugs her elbow away and brushes her hair away from her face. "I'm fine."

"Just checking."

"I'm not drunk."

"Sounds about right."

Surprising me, she laughs into her hand. It's unlike anything I've ever heard from her before. In her music, she's strong. Fierce. Unstoppable. Her laugh, though not indicative of her not possessing any of those traits, is so much more delicate. Like a butterfly dancing in the soft spring sunlight. As if she's releasing a stream of musical notes to caress your face like a long-lost lover would.

And then she turns to me, still smiling, even though I know it's a side effect of the definitely-not-drunk state, and I feel the air rush out of me, though I keep my body still and my head on straight. As much as possible, anyway.

I've seen all of their faces countless times, enough that I should have recognized Rami immediately with how often they're on my Spotify, but seeing them up close is a completely different experience. Seeing her is different. It's silly and I have more pressing things to worry about than a pretty drunk girl at a party, like my first F1 win that I should be celebrating or worrying about what team I'm going to sign to next year or the year after that, but one look and she has me hooked.

Is it even possible for someone to look this beautiful when they've clearly had too many drinks? Or is it just the moonlight playing tricks on me?

(Who am I kidding, we're in Los Angeles. It's polluted moonlight anyway. And she somehow still makes it look good.)

God, shut up, Brendon. She's said all of five words to you.

"Wait, I know you!" she says suddenly, and my chest tightens.

"Do you?"

"You're one of those vroom vroom people!"

In spite of how distracting she is, including the way the wind blows her perfume over me, drowning my senses in thoughts of her, I manage to choke out a laugh, hoping she doesn't realize the effect she has on me. I keep a safe distance, mostly out of respect because I'm not trying to invade her space, but also because I foolishly believe it'll make a difference.

"Vroom vroom people."

"The real-life Mario Kart ones," she clarifies.

"Ah, yes. That is I."

She laughs again. God.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Maybe I have had too much to drink too because she can ask me whatever she wants. My answers are all hers.

"Sure," I say instead. Can't have her getting scared and trying to run away from me when we're sitting on top of someone's roof.

She leans in close like she's about to tell me her deepest, darkest secret, a serious expression canvassing her face. Even hidden in the shadows, her eyes are bright and wide, and they only seem shinier the closer she becomes. I wonder what it's like to see them in every shade of day.

"Have you ever thrown a banana on the track?"

I drag my face into my hands and laugh harder than I ever have since I left home. Once I'm able to subdue it, for the most part, I take a peek at her and her face shifts from mild confusion to something I'm sure resembles the look on my face. Mild amusement, perhaps. If I'm being lucky. I don't actually want to know what the expression on my face means.

"You didn't answer my question," she persists.

I shake my head, biting my lip. "No, I have not."

"That's a shame. Bet you'd win a lot of races if you did."

"Couple of red and blue shells and right to the front of the pack."

Her eyes light up as she points at me. "See! You get it now."

"Maybe I'll try it in Singapore."

Stevie nods, satisfied with my response. Not that she's made any indication of doing such a thing, but the thought of her watching me race is confounding. Racing by nature is full of nerves and adrenaline, all compounded by the debilitating desire to be the very best. Knowing how she makes me feel right now, in a place void of all of those high-wired emotions only confirms that her presence in that part of my life would send everything into overdrive.

Then again, that is more or less what every driver is prepared to endure as soon as we step into these shoes. The thrill of finding the right balance—in the car, in our lives, in the chaotic world of motorsports—while daring to go further than the limits.

"What was your name again?" she asks.

"Brendon. Brendon Ellis. Everyone calls me Bash."

She tilts her head to the side. "Why? Brendon is such a nice name."

I shrug. "Too long for them, I guess."

"That's just silly." I've gotten so used to people calling me by a truncated version of my middle name that hearing she prefers my given name is unexpected. "At least you're not stuck with a name like Stevie."

"Stevie's a great name," I object, feeling my face twist into a scowl.

She rolls her eyes and leans back on her hands. "Not when you become the lead singer of a band. Who needs that kind of albatross around their neck when you're following in the footsteps of one of the greatest musicians of all time?"

"I think a lot of great men get away with their greatness even while sharing the same name and no one questions them on it. Why should you do that to yourself?"

She scoffs, rolling her head over to look at me. "Now you're just sucking up."

"There's a good chance we'll never see each other again. I've got nothing to prove."

As much as I hate admitting that, it's the truth. We both run in different circles, bound to the ever-moving nature of our fast lives. Running into each other at a party is a fluke, as much as I'm enjoying myself right now, which is more than I can say for the time before this chance meeting. I'm not holding out hope that lightning will strike twice on us.

"Well," she says defiantly, chin up in the air, "I think Brendon Ellis sounds like a championship-winning name."

"And I think Stevie—"

"Kealoha." She relinquishes this part of her identity to me with ease, eyes widening as she realizes what she's done. "Don't tell anyone I told you that. I'm... keeping it a secret for now."

"I think Stevie Kealoha," I whisper her surname, "sounds like someone who's going to win a shit load of awards."

She drags her eyes away from me then and I worry I've somehow said the wrong thing. It shouldn't matter that much. First impressions are important, and she's doing a number on me, I can't deny that, but we're still strangers who've only just moved beyond introductions.

As the party continues downstairs, a strangely complimentary harmony to our conversation, Stevie's eyes travel up toward the sky. It's wishful thinking to look for stars in this city, even at this time of night, but if we squint hard enough, we can picture them out there. As her gaze remains trained on that search, I steal another look at her, all hopeful and wondering and waiting. For what, I'm not entirely sure. I'm not sure even she knows. But I find myself wishing, even if we never see each other again, that she finds it all one day.

"Have you ever been in love?"

Her question rocks me. It's not what I was expecting.

"No."

"Me neither." She drags her feet up so she can wrap her arms around her legs. If I had a jacket to offer, it would already be hers. "Or, at least, I don't think so. I don't think I actually know what it's like to be in love. For a long time, I was convinced I never even wanted it. Stubborn little girl jaded by seeing how being in love and losing that love ruined her mother. But sometimes, when everyone else is asleep, I go outside and look up at the stars and think wow, if it's anything like having someone look at me the way I look at those, then I think... I think I want that. You know?"

It makes so much sense. Everything she says makes sense, even when she's not trying to.

All I can do is nod my head, not entirely convinced I understand what she's talking about because I haven't been able to tear my eyes away from her this entire time. Maybe I've forgotten what stars look like.

"Can I admit something?" she asks, not bothering to wait for a response. "I actually am pretty drunk. Like, very drunk. Should not have had that much to drink kind of drunk. Embarrassing, really. I probably won't remember any of this tomorrow."

It's not like she needed to confirm that, but I find myself relieved to know she won't remember this and feel embarrassed by any of it. I'm also equally saddened by the likelihood that she won't remember this. That this conversation, as meaningless and random as it has been, won't have been branded into her memories as it will mine.

"You mean to say you wouldn't have asked me if I've thrown a banana on the track if you were sober?"

"Probably not. Maybe not. Maybe if we were friends."

"I guess luckily for you, we're just two strangers at a party."

She nods, her thoughts no more sober than they were five seconds ago. But she seems sure of herself, even in her current state, so I understand there's meaning to the words she shares with me.

"Hate to cut this short but I think I should find my friends now."

Stevie moves to stand up, albeit just as wobbly as she was when I first found her, and I shift so I can offer her a hand. She grasps onto it and maneuvers back through the window, stopping once she's inside to turn back to me before dusting herself off. In the faint light of the bedroom, her soft waves are backlit with an angelic haze.

"I'm not usually this friendly all the time," she admits with a small laugh. "Don't be fooled by the booze and happy buzz from the good news we received earlier."

"Are you trying to drive me away already?"

"Just being honest in case we do run into each other again. Don't want you thinking I won't be a brat that thinks you're invading her solitude."

"It was nice to meet you, Stevie." Very nice. One of the nicer things Los Angeles has had to offer me.

"You too, Brendon." She turns on her heels and makes her way to the open door. "If you win your next race because of the banana, I demand full credit."

"How about half?"

"Seventy-five percent."

"Done."