LILY

The meeting with Dr. Patel goes better than expected. Dad's surgery was a resounding success, and everyone at the hospital agrees that Dad should be discharged in a week. He'll need to rest for at least four to six weeks, and might be cleared to return to the race circuit at that point.

"We'll have to evaluate, though. You'll need physical therapy," says the doctor.

"I'll make sure he follows orders," Mom chimes in, patting Dad's foot. In response, Dad playfully scowls.

I do the math in my mind. Six weeks means three races: Austin, Montreal and Mexico City. After that is Brazil. I know the schedule by heart. That's not too bad, I guess, no major global travel to contend with. I inhale and catch a whiff of Max's cologne that hangs in the air.

No, it's bad. Super bad.

Dr. Patel finishes talking, and says he'll give us some time alone. When he leaves, it's just the three of us: me, mom and dad. Part of me would prefer if Max was here too, because his presence is oddly comforting. Also, I really need that coffee to kick my butt into gear.

Mom and I sit on the bed, on either side of Dad.

I put on a bright expression. "We have a ton of logistics to work out. Like where you're both going to stay while he recovers, whether you're going to New York—"

"We're staying at your condo when he gets out of here, then we'll decide on New York," Mom says firmly.

"You just have to get to Austin, dear."

Mom nods in agreement. It's as if they're both on the same page, which is unusual.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stick around for a few days?" I ask.

"No," they say in tandem.

"Gosh, way to make your only daughter feel wanted."

"Kamari mou, you know we'd rather have you here with us. But the team takes priority."

"Always the team," mom groans.

"Not now, Eileen," Dad warns.

"Enough, you two. No arguing. Please don't antagonize him, Mom.

"Yes, don't antagonize me, Eileen." Dad reaches for Mom's nose in a playful gesture, and she kisses his hand.

"Don't egg her on," I warn. "Fine. I'll go to Austin today."

"You and Max go on our jet together," Dad says.

Mom winks, and I shoot her a glare. "Okay. We're going to have to come up with a statement to the press. They've been begging for details for hours. I haven't even looked at what's in the papers, I'm sure all sorts of lies have already made it into print."

"You should've already met with Tanya. Where's the phone? Let's call her." Dad tries to twist to his bedside table with a grunt. Mom stops him.

"I'll call her from the car. So, Mom, you're staying here?"

She waves me off and I stand. "Go, go. We'll be in constant contact. Find Max and get out of here. I've got this under control."

I wasn't entirely convinced but bend down to kiss my father's forehead anyway. "Dr. Patel says you're out of the danger zone. But you need to take better care of yourself from here on in, okay?"

"Yes, dear. Keep me updated on everything, okay? Call me from Austin. Call me anytime."

"Dad, you need to rest." As I buss his temple, the door opens.

It's Max, holding a cup of coffee. Thank God.

"Okay, we're leaving, mom's staying here," I say to him.

He nods, as if this is all the most normal thing in the world. And oddly, it kind of feels that way. Like Max is the one who should be at my side during a crisis. Like he's part of my family. I decide not to dwell too much on that feeling and wave goodbye to my parents.

Max hands me the coffee and bends down, giving my dad and awkward hug. He then rounds the bed and smooches Mom on the cheek, and we then make our way out of the room and down the hall.

Maybe because it all seems so natural, so right, I begin babbling nervously.

"So Dr. Patel said that Dad's left ventricle was nearly entirely blocked..." I go on about Dad's heart while we step into the elevator, and all the way down the ten flights to the bottom floor. I tell Max details about the heart that would impress a surgeon, and all he does is nod soberly and make eye contact, as if I'm telling him the most fascinating details about Michael Schumacher or explaining how a new braking system works.

Max truly appears as though he's riveted to what I'm saying, and that makes my face flush with warmth. Having his undivided attention here in this cramped elevator makes my stomach flutter. But that's not because of me. It's just Max — unfailingly polite. An angel. And also a devil. He's not showing that devilish side right now, but I know it exists. I've seen it up close, in bed, and I've read about his exploits over the years with women.

Must. Be. Careful.

The bodyguards flank us as we make our way to Mom's car. Outside, the humid Miami air slaps us in the face, and Max winces.

"I could never get used to this weather," he says softly. Is that a subtle jab at my new hometown?

I'm about to retort with something snarky about the weather in Germany when we're ambushed, literally descended upon, by a herd of reporters, brandishing cameras and microphones.

"Oh, shit," I mutter.

There's no escaping them, because we're standing on a sidewalk, with a busy street in between us and the car. Clusters of people are stopped nearby, and on the other side of the road, taking pictures of the unfolding scene. They probably came to see their sick loved ones, but we're now the main attraction. This is a moment for TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.

The reporters don't care that people are watching. They shout question after question at us. The noise is so loud, I can barely hear anything.

"The driver's pulling the vehicle around," one of the bodyguards says to Max.

He nods, and his eyes scan the press. It's obvious he's not thrilled with this situation, and neither am I. My heart rate is spiking, my palms are sweaty, and I suspect all the photos and videos will show me looking dazed, if not outright fugly.

We're barraged with questions, and at first, Max and I both stay silent. After thirty seconds of total pandemonium, I snap.

"Okay, okay. If you all shut up, I'll give you a statement." I hold up my hand.

Max looks uncharacteristically startled. When we were together, I never said anything to the media, and in fact went out of my way to avoid them with disguises and fake names. There's none of that now, though. Not while I'm running a Formula World team with the world's most popular driver on the roster.

"Stand back. Give us room." I'm trying to channel my inner crisis mode. It's so much easier when I'm doing this for someone else.

The reporters back off about six inches, and I scan their sweaty faces. "My father had a heart attack at the track yesterday. He underwent surgery and is now recovering well. Because it was a major operation, he'll need to undergo physical therapy and will require some time away from the team. I'll be taking his place running Team Onassis, and I'll be heading to Austin this afternoon. I can take a couple of questions, but we've got to make this quick."

"Lily. Lily!" It's Gordon, the Sky News beat reporter who does the on-track interviews. He waves his pen in my face.

"Yes, Gordon?" I'm dipping into a well of patience that I never knew I had. The reporters step closer, and a claustrophobic panic wells inside of me. It goes along with the hugging thing — I despise strange people in my space.

"Why are you the one to take over the team? Why not Jack, or one of the other team principals?"

It's a fair question. "My father trusts me. I grew up around Formula World and am intimately familiar with my father's wishes. The reality is, the team is an excellent group of professionals and I'm there to help manage things and cheer them on until my father is back in top shape. And he will be back, so don't get any ideas that this is permanent. One more question."

I point to a woman whose voice is barely audible above the other reporters' shouts. "Yes, you. Where are you from?"

"Lyn Eckfeldt from Auto Week. Ms. Onassis, will your prior relationship with Max Becker pose any problems when you assume your father's duties as team owner? How does that square with your crusade at your former employer to root out sexual harassment?"

I should've known this question was coming. I lick my lips, hating myself for hesitating. What I want to do is snarl and say it's no one's business what happened between Max and me all those years ago. But that would just fan the flames, so I smile.

As I'm about to answer, Max steps forward. "Lily and I are great friends, and she's simply brilliant. Her experience in the media and her knowledge of the sport means she's just as qualified as anyone to run a Formula World team. I'm thrilled to be her driver, and I know she will do an excellent job. We only focus on the present, because the only thing that's important is winning in Austin, and Montreal, and the championship."

"The car's here," one of the bodyguards shouts. He holds out his beefy arms so Max and I can walk through the swarm of media. They shout questions as we hustle into the waiting car, and I only exhale when we're well away from the hospital and on the road.

I stare out the window, wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into. My plan for the summer was to get my head on straight. Look for a new job. Try to regain my equilibrium and dignity after being fired.

"You did great," Max says in a voice reserved for upset children and feral kittens.

I turn to look at him. His eyes are soft, and I swear they're something resembling tender. "Thanks. It doesn't get any easier, dealing with them."

"I was pretty impressed. You'd have never acted that calmly seven years ago."

"I've learned a lot." My statement hangs in the air as we stare at each other.

The driver's voice interrupts our conversation, but not our eye contact. "Ms. Onassis, I understand you're stopping by your condo before we all go to the executive airport, is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct. Thank you." I don't tear my eyes away from Max's. "I appreciate you answering that question for the media back there, the one about us."

"No need to thank me, Lulu."

We smile at each other, and the temperature in the limo rises about fifty degrees. I should stop staring into Max's eyes. Should stop remembering what it was like to kiss him. Shouldn't recall how it felt when he held me. But I can't, and it's making all the dopamine and serotonin in my brain ping around. I almost feel high, and yeah, a little happy under these messed-up circumstances.

"Your father asked me to help you, and that's what I was doing. Simple as that."

He breaks our eye contact and turns to look out his window. That's when my heart fractures a bit. He wasn't doing that out of kindness, wasn't coming to my rescue from the press out of anything but obligation.

All of that happiness evaporates, and I turn away, biting my lip in to keep from crying in front of Max.

____