well as he knows his own, so I know the sandwich will be what I always order: an Italian grinder on wheat bread, topped with shredded lettuce, tomatoes, and the world’s best giardiniera relish.
When I start to unwrap my sandwich, I remember how hungry I am. I’ll have a better chance of eating slowly if I sit down, so I set my food on the old metal desk sitting in the corner of the shop, the spot that also serves as my office. Shoving aside a few papers and my laptop, I flop down into my chair. Sticky notes line the outer edge of my laptop screen, reminders of everything I need to do in the next few days, and when my eyes run over all those nagging little squares of paper, it becomes harder to resist inhaling the sandwich in as few bites as possible. There’s always too much to do, so much that chewing my food properly feels like a luxury that I can’t afford.
Today is worse than usual because I arrived at the track so late. Even if I love being able to help Becca whenever she asks, modeling clothes for her style blog always takes a lot longer than I think it will. Thankfully, she knows better than anyone does how tough things are at the track, so even though we didn’t get shots of everything she was hoping for, she shoved me out the door before I lost the whole day. I might have left looking like I was headed to a bachelorette party in Vegas, but delaying my costume change and the triple rounds of face washing required to get all that makeup off meant I was able to avoid rush-hour traffic on the way here.
During race season, every minute saved counts. What happens between Friday night and Sunday afternoon determines our entire year’s success. To say that we’re working with thin profit margins is a joke. That implies we have profits. Plus the past few years, we’ve had to deal with more than just staying in the black—we’re also dealing with noise complaints and zoning issues from the upscale housing developments that now surround us. Those same subdivisions are the reason we constantly have real estate developers skulking around like ravenous coyotes, smirking and patronizing us with whatever sales pitch they’ve come up with this week.
From this spot in the shop, I can see the edge of the Thunder Ridge subdivision, which sits on a rise just east of us. I still remember the way that lonesome yet beautiful vista looked when I was a kid. It looked like nothing. Nothing but sage grass and scrub brush, broken up by T-posts and barbed wire, all reminders of how rural our location was.
Now it’s million-dollar homes all crammed together, one built right next to the other until it’s become impossible to ignore the way so-called progress is looming over our little track. Some days I wonder what it would be like if we gave up and walked away, leaving all the headaches in the rearview mirror. But for me, that would mean walking away from the life I’ve always imagined for myself. Without this place, I’d have no clue who I am.
I let out a heavy sigh and take another big bite of the sandwich, then another, until I realize it’s almost half-gone. I switch over to the Cheetos and scoop up a big handful, then chase the artificial goodness with a long drink of my soda.
“Hey, nobody’s going to take that from you. You’re hitting that sub like a catfish on the right bait. Don’t make me set the hook.”
I know Cody can see my face from his spot under the car, so I roll my eyes at him. “You wanted me to eat, so I’m eating. Now I’m eating too fast?”
“If you spend twenty minutes to eat instead of two, it won’t make any fucking difference at the end of the day. Stop worrying. Everything on your to-do list will get done. It always does.”
His voice is as steady as it always is. Not much rattles Cody, something I wish I could say for myself. If he says that everything will get done, then it will; he truly believes that. I never trust anything or anyone—not even myself, not entirely. I’m destined to be a lifelong worrier and a restless to-do-list maker, all in hopes that if I manage the details, then it will feel like I can control the outcome. And