Page 3 of Burn
“The Florida Grand Prix, about to get underway before a hundred and fifty thousand fans in Miami. The lights go out and the race begins!”
I hold my breath as the cars pull away. This is always the best part of a race, seeing who will emerge from that first cluster of cars. Sometimes there are wrecks this early, serving to weed out the unlucky and unprepared drivers. Sure enough, a couple of cars collide and skid into the gravel.
Max pulls ahead of the competition with ease, as I suspected he would.
“Becker’s got the best start . . .” The announcer chatters on about how Max is looking strong and the car’s handling well. Good. Papa will be thrilled. But neither he nor Max will relax for the next fifty-seven laps, not until that checkered flag flies. I probably won’t either. It’s a dangerous sport, yet another reason why I’d broken up with Max. Seeing a person I loved that close to death almost every weekend was too nerve-racking for my soul.
Don’t get me wrong; I love the sport. But being with a man driving a car is a different story entirely.
I exhale and turn back to the cookies, spooning them onto the sheet while listening to the race. I slide them into the oven and set the timer for twelve minutes.
As the smell of vanilla and sugar fills the air, I can’t get an image of Papa out of my mind. His eyes took on a certain sadness when I told him I couldn’t attend this year, but, mercifully, he didn’t ask why. Maybe he knew. Or perhaps he figured I wasn’t up to such a crowded event only a month after a very public dismissal from my job as the human resources manager—excuse me, “chief people officer”—for a new and wildly popular tech company.
There was another reason too. I didn’t want to face Max. Oh sure, I’d run into him at races over the years, but he’d always been on another team, so it was easy to avoid any lengthy conversations. Now that he’s my father’s driver, well, that’s a bit more difficult.
We’d end up at the bar making awkward conversation or at some buffet in the cafeteria, asking each other questions over plates of chicken. Worse, I’d have to pose next to him for the team photographer, and the idea of being that close to him makes my entire body break out in a sweat.
The first batch of cookies finish, and I slide them onto a rack and bake another sheet. I keep one ear on the race as I clean up, and when the second batch is finished, I lose myself in organizing my fridge.
I can only imagine what an announcer would say if they were narrating my life right now.
The disgraced executive of a popular auto racing video game company leads an exciting life, arranging her fridge on a hot Sunday afternoon. Most women like her would be having brunch at a posh New York hot spot or vacationing in the Alps. Not Lily Onassis. She’s a lone wolf, preferring cookies to Coach bags and sneakers to Saint Laurent. And look at her outfit. She can’t even be bothered to change out of yoga pants and a coffee-stained T-shirt. So much money, privilege, and potential, and she chooses a plain-Jane existence. She’s notoriously private, has been for years since she was rumored to have been a relationship with Formula World superstar Max Becker. At the time, he was a driver for a rival team . . .
An hour passes, and in between scrubbing the scuzz leftover from a rotting peach in the produce drawer and tossing a Styrofoam container of takeout that’s a couple of weeks old, I check the race. Max is still in first place, and it appears as though he’ll win. Papa’s excellent instinct for luring drivers from competing teams has paid off again.
The chirp of my cell jolts me away from the television. I pad into the living room, where the phone sits on the coffee table.
Adam McLean, the screen says.
Weird. It’s my father’s assistant. Surely he’s at the race with my father.
“Hey, Adam. What’s up?” I ask in a brisk tone.
“Lily, don’t panic. I have some unfortunate news. We’re sending a driver for you.”
“What? Why? What’s going on?” I press my free hand to my throat, as if to hold in my heart, which feels like it’s lodged there instead of in my chest. Whenever someone tells you not to panic, that’s literally the only thing you can do.
“It’s your father. He passed out in the garage during the race and is on his way to the hospital now. We need you there as soon as possible.”
Chapter Two
LILY
A little over an hour later, I’m running into an enormous hospital in downtown Miami. I’d had the presence of mind to wash my face, sweep my hair into a messy bun, and change out of my dirty clothes and into a blue tank dress and sneakers, but hadn’t showered.
A doctor in a white coat meets me in the lobby. He has kind eyes and a gentle smile, but his brow is furrowed with concern. I can see the sweat on his forehead, beading in the fluorescent light. I try to explain who I am and why I’m there, but my words come out in a jumble.
“What happened? Papa! How is he?” I’m breathless with worry and fear. Nothing like this has ever happened to my father. Quite the opposite; even at sixty-three he seems strong and strapping, invincible even.
“I’m Dr. Mihir Patel, and it’s nice to meet you, Ms. Onassis. I’m so sorry to meet you like this, but your father had a heart attack while at the race.”
“What? No!” I press the heels of my hands to my forehead.
“He’s stable now. We’ve given him medicine to thin his blood and nitroglycerin to help improve blood flow and ease the work the heart needs to do. We’re also giving him thrombolytic medications, what we call clot busters. We want to begin the angioplasty procedure, but he insisted on seeing you prior to that surgery. We’ve also been in contact with your mother.”
“Surgery?” I seem to only be capable of yelling one-word responses.
“Angioplasty is a common procedure. It allows us to see inside the arteries and look for the blockage. Once that’s found, we’ll insert a stent . . .”