Mom walks three steps behind us like she's been demoted from family to entourage. It's Tuesday morning in Indianapolis, the air thick with that midwestern humidity that makes everything feel slightly damp, including my mood. The speedway looms ahead, a concrete colosseum where my sister will soon battle for glory while I play the role of supportive brother.
"God, I've missed this place," Melissa breathes beside me, her face lighting up as we approach the main entrance. She's practically bouncing with each step, more animated than I've seen her in years.
I glance back at Mom, who trails behind us with uncharacteristic meekness. Her usual imperious stride has been replaced by something almost... submissive. Every time her eyes meet Cecilia's, she seems to shrink further into herself, shoulders hunching slightly as if expecting a blow.
"You okay back there, Mom?" I call out, unable to resist poking the bear, even a wounded one.
She forces a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Perfect, Nicholas. Just taking in the atmosphere."
Cecilia, maintaining her perfect three-pace distance behind me, says nothing. Her face remains professionally blank, but something in her eyes suggests she's enjoying Mom's discomfort immensely.
"So," Melissa says, looping her arm through mine as we pass through security, "I have a surprise for you."
My stomach immediately knots. In my experience, surprises from my sister rarely end well for me. The last "surprise" involved me being volunteered to give a speech at her racing academy fundraiser with zero preparation.
"I don't love the sound of that," I admit, eyeing her suspiciously. "What do you mean?"
Her smile widens, taking on that mischievous quality that's haunted me since childhood. "Just give it a minute. You'll see." She squeezes my arm once before breaking away. "I need to check something in the garage. Meet me there in five?"
Before I can protest, she's off, racing boots clicking against the concrete as she disappears around a corner. I'm left standing awkwardly between my subdued mother and Ivy's terrifying assistant-slash-bodyguard.
"Any idea what she's planning?" I ask Mom, more to break the uncomfortable silence than anything else.
She shakes her head, eyes darting nervously to Cecilia before settling back on me. "Melissa doesn't confide in me much these days."
"I see," I say, though I'm not sure I do.
Mom pulls out her phone, immediately absorbed in whatever's on the screen. Probably checking racing news or looking for ways to worm her way back into Melissa's good graces. I don't particularly care which.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, we make our way to the Andretti garage. The walk feels longer than it should, each step weighted with anticipation and dread. What exactly has Melissa planned?
The garage comes into view, and immediately I spot my sister practically vibrating with excitement near something covered by a tarp. Her grin is infectious despite my apprehension.
"Nick! Hey, check this out!" Melissa waves me over frantically, bouncing on her toes like a kid on Christmas morning.
I approach cautiously, Cecilia's shadow falling across my shoulder as she maintains her protective distance. Mom hangs back even further, still glued to her phone.
Melissa yanks the tarp away with dramatic flair, revealing what lies beneath. My breath catches in my throat.
It's an older IndyCar, the distinctive shape screaming early-to-mid nineties design. The paint is slightly faded but well-maintained, the curves and angles speaking to a different era of racing. Something from the CART series, maybe? The raw mechanical beauty of it makes my heart skip.
"This baby's still blazingly fast," Melissa says, running her hand lovingly along the sidepod. "Guess who pulled some strings to get their little brother some laps at his favorite track?"
The words hit me like a physical blow. Laps. She's offering me actual laps. At Indianapolis. In a real IndyCar.
My body floods with contradictory sensations, pure, unadulterated excitement that makes my hands shake, immediately followed by cold panic that settles in my gut like lead. The two emotions war inside me, creating a dizzying cocktail of adrenaline and terror.
"You're joking," I manage, my voice coming out higher than intended. "Me? Actually drive this thing?"
"Dead serious," Melissa confirms, her eyes sparkling with genuine happiness. "You've driven here how many times in iRacing? Figured it was time you experienced the real thing."
I stare at the car, then at my sister, then back at the car. My palms are already sweating. This is everything I've ever wanted and everything I'm terrified of in equal measure.
"Absolutely not!" Mom's voice cracks across the garage like a whip, sharp and panicked. She drops her phone, the device clattering against the concrete as she lurches forward. "Nicholas, you are NOT getting in that death trap!"
I turn to face her, surprised by the genuine terror in her eyes. Her face has gone pale, almost gray, and her hands are trembling as she reaches toward me like she's trying to physically stop me from approaching the car.
"Mom, I…"
"No!" She cuts me off, her voice rising to something close to hysteria. "Melissa, what were you thinking? He could die! Men don't have the reflexes for this kind of thing. They're not built for it!"
Melissa's expression hardens instantly, her earlier joy evaporating. "Are you serious right now?"
"I'm protecting my son!" Mom snaps, positioning herself between me and the car like a human shield. "Boys aren't meant for racing, Melissa. You know this. Their reaction times, their spatial awareness, it's all wrong for this kind of speed." Her eyes find mine, wild with fear. "Nick, please. You'll kill yourself. You don't have the natural ability for this."
The words land like physical blows, each one a familiar echo from childhood. How many times did I hear variations of this? Boys can't race. Boys don't have what it takes. Boys are too fragile, too slow, too fundamentally wrong for motorsport.
"That's complete bullshit," Melissa growls, stepping forward with clenched fists. "Nick's driven simulators for years. I be he knows the breaking zones better than half the grid."
"Simulators!" Mom practically spits the word. "That's not real, Melissa. Real racing requires instincts that men simply don't possess. It's biology, not prejudice." She turns back to me, her expression shifting to something almost pleading.
Something inside me snaps. Maybe it's the years of accumulated dismissal, maybe it's the distance from Ivy making me feel untethered, or maybe I'm just fucking tired of hearing this shit.
"You know what, Mom?" My voice comes out harder than I expect, sharp enough that even Cecilia's eyebrows raise slightly. "You've never really supported me. Not once."
Mom's mouth opens, but I'm not done.
"Every time I showed interest in racing, you shut me down. Every time I wanted to try, you found a reason why I couldn't. Why I shouldn't." Heat floods through my chest, spreading outward until my hands are shaking. "And you know what? I'm done listening to you tell me what I can't do."
The garage has gone completely silent. Even the distant sounds of other teams seem to fade away.
"I'm going to drive this car," I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds despite the adrenaline coursing through me. "That's the end of it."
Mom's face cycles through shock, hurt, and then anger. "Nicholas, I forbid…"
"You don't get to forbid me anything anymore," I interrupt, feeling strangely powerful. "I'm a grown man. I'm married. I make my own choices now."
Melissa's grin spreads across her face like sunrise, pride radiating from every pore. Mom looks like I've physically struck her, her mouth working soundlessly.
Before the standoff can escalate further, Cecilia materializes at my elbow with that unnerving speed of hers. She leans in close, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Sir, I'm sorry, but do you mind speaking with me alone?"
The formality of it throws me off balance. She's never called me sir before. There's something urgent in her tone, something that cuts through my rebellious high.
"Uhh, sure," I manage, still riding the wave of adrenaline from confronting Mom.
Cecilia's hand barely touches my elbow as she guides me away from the group, past the race car and toward a quieter corner of the garage. Her expression remains professionally neutral.
We stop near a stack of tires, far enough from the others that our conversation won't carry. Mom's still standing frozen where I left her, Melissa hovering protectively near the IndyCar like she's afraid someone might try to take it away.
Cecilia leans in closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Look, I'm sorry to say this, but Ivy gave me explicit instructions to stop you from driving a car on this track if the option came up."
The words hit me like cold water, dousing the fire of my rebellion instantly. My mouth opens, then closes. The adrenaline still coursing through my veins suddenly has nowhere to go, leaving me feeling jittery and unmoored.
"Because she doesn't think men can drive?" The words come out bitter, defensive.
Cecilia shakes her head, something almost sympathetic flickering across her usually stoic features. "No. Because she loves her husband too much to chance something like this."
The explanation steals the breath from my lungs. Not because I'm not good enough. Not because I'm a man. Because Ivy loves me.
I let out a long, shaky sigh, running my hands through my hair. "I can't just let my mom win."
"Ivy will be very unhappy," Cecilia says, and there's a warning in her tone that makes my stomach clench.
My heart does that stupid flutter thing it always does when I think about Ivy's reaction to something. I can already picture the look on her face, that mixture of fear and fury and hurt. But something inside me refuses to bend.
"I adore my wife," I say quietly, meeting Cecilia's eyes. "But I have to do this for me."
Cecilia's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I really must suggest otherwise, Mr. Hunt."
"I hear you," I reply, already turning back toward the car.
Each step feels heavier than the last as I cross the garage floor. Mom's still frozen in place, her face a mask of horror. Melissa watches me approach with barely contained excitement, bouncing slightly on her toes.
"So?" Melissa asks, glancing between me and Cecilia's imposing figure behind me. "We doing this or what?"
I nod once, sharp and decisive, before I can talk myself out of it. "Yeah. Let's do this."
"YES!" Melissa pumps her fist in the air, already moving toward a rack of racing suits. "Oh my god, this is going to be so sick. I can't wait to see you out there."
Mom steps forward, and something in her movement makes me pause. The terror in her eyes hasn't diminished, if anything, it's intensified. Her hands reach out toward me, trembling so badly I can see them shaking from here.
"Nicholas, please." Her voice cracks on my name, stripped of all the usual authority and judgment. "Please don't do this."
I've never heard her beg before. Not once in my entire life. Kendal Woods doesn't beg, she commands, she criticizes, she controls. But the woman standing before me now looks smaller somehow, diminished by genuine fear.
"I'm serious," she continues, taking another step closer. "I know you think I'm just being controlling, but that's not what this is. You could die out there, Nick."
Something twists in my chest. Part of me, the part that's been conditioned since childhood to seek her approval, wants to comfort her. Wants to tell her it's okay, that I won't do it, that I'll stay safe and small and exactly what she expects me to be.
But a larger part of me, the part that's been growing stronger since I met Ivy, refuses to bend.
"Fuck you Mom. I'm doing this."