Racer (Real Book 7)

Racer

I hear him arrive sometime early morning.

I’m already checked in, getting shit up my veins. The doctor treating me called my doctor in St. Pete, and they’re now giving me the same treatment they did last time to try level me out.

When I got diagnosed, worst thing was the frustration and guilt my dad battled with. I, on the other hand, battled with the shit-as-fuck feeling of living up to be a complete disappointment. My dad went black—that’s what we call it when he gets triggered, because his eyes, blue like mine, change in color. Weird, I know, but possible. He’s proof of it.

My mom was worried, but my dad recovered fast. He kept saying, “You don’t have it. You fucking don’t, all right?”

I didn’t want to say, “Are you fucking deaf?! The doctors just confirmed it.”

“He’s in denial, he’ll come around, Racer,” Iris said when she came to visit.

I didn’t reply to that.

“Do you think I’ll get it someday too?” she asked me, worried.

“No,” I immediately growled, pressing her to my chest and promising her, “I’ve got it for the both of us, okay? Never think that. You’re perfect.”

Now my dad steps into the room—quiet, like he always is.

Our eyes meet, and his jaw tightens.

We say nothing.

He pulls up a chair by the bed.

I lie here on this bed, battling a battle I’m going to probably face a hundred times in my lifetime.

“It’s your phone. Do you want me to take it.”

“No. I don’t want her here.”

My voice is low and rough, and my father digests that for a moment.

“I had a team to watch out for me when I was off meds. You’re out here on your own, and you shouldn’t be. You don’t have to go this alone. That’s what they’re there for. Don’t go off your meds, Racer.” He regards me in frustration, his voice firm. “Don’t let yourself climb that high and you’ll hopefully prevent ever hitting this low again. You’ve got this, son. I know you do. You’re too stubborn and too proud and too damn special. You have a lot to do—and I can’t wait to fucking watch you do it.”

I’m silent for a moment.

“Fuck you,” I say. “Fuck you for giving me this shit.”

Dad just stares at me as I say the words I’ve always wanted to say out loud.

He leans forward and levels his gaze on me.

“I gave you fucking life. It’s up to you to get the rest of what you want. So, what do you want, Racer? Do you want this championship? Do you want the girl? Do you want to get fucking better? Do you want to beat this? John?”

“Stop calling me John.”

“Stop wanting to be some other guy, Racer. A simple guy. Anyone but you. Own your name. Go fucking get it. Racer. Fucking. Tate. My son. Huh? Or is it John?”

He slaps my cheek part gently and part not. “Is it John?”

“Racer Fucking Tate, Dad.”

“Good. OWN it. Get this thing.”

He slams his fist into the chair, then stares at me and exhales when I give him nothing. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Don’t say anything.”

“You’re right, not good with words. But I’ll help you get better. I know what you need.”