After My Driver Kissed His New Co-Driver

Seattle looked gray even when it wasn't raining. I drove through the night from LA, twelve hours straight, no stops except gas. My hands stayed locked on the wheel the whole way. I didn't turn on music. I didn't need to think about anything except the garage code I'd memorized three years ago, the one Camden swore he'd never change because I was the only person besides him who needed access.

The manuscripts were still in there. My father's originals. Twenty years of hand-drawn routes, corner annotations in his careful block letters, notes in the margins where he'd written things like *Elina age 9 says this turn feels angry* next to a hairpin in Nevada. They were the only piece of him I had left that couldn't be replaced by memory or photographs. They were the thing Camden knew I'd come back for.

I pulled into the team garage lot just after two in the morning. The building sat dark and silent. I walked up to the side door, the one the crew used, and I punched in the code.

Red light. Access denied.

I tried again. Same result.

He'd changed it.

I pulled out my phone. Called him. It rang six times, then voicemail. I texted: *I just need my father's manuscripts. That's all. Please.*

No reply.

I sat down on the concrete step outside the door. The rain started an hour later, light at first, then heavier. I pulled my jacket tighter and stayed exactly where I was. I wasn't leaving without them. He could ignore me for hours, for days if he wanted. I'd wait.

The rain soaked through my jeans by four in the morning. By six, I was shivering hard enough that my teeth clicked together. I kept my phone in my hand, checking it every few minutes. No response. No missed calls. Nothing.

The sky went from black to gray. The rain kept falling.

I heard the crew before I saw them. Voices, footsteps, the sound of a car door slamming in the lot. I stood up, stiff and soaked, and turned toward the sound.

Five of them. The usual morning team. And Oakley, walking in the center like she'd always belonged there, laughing at something one of the guys said.

She saw me first. Her smile didn't falter. If anything, it got brighter.

"Oh my god," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Did you sleep here?"

I didn't answer. I looked past her to the crew lead, Marcus, who'd worked with my father years ago. "I need to get my dad's manuscripts. They're still inside."

Marcus shifted his weight. Looked at Oakley. Looked back at me. "I don't know if I can—"

"She's not supposed to be here," Oakley cut in. She walked past me toward the door, close enough that I could smell her perfume, something expensive and sharp. "Camden said she's not allowed on site anymore."

"I'm not asking for access," I said. My voice came out hoarse. "I'm asking for my father's work. That's it."

Oakley unlocked the door with her own code. She stepped inside, and the crew followed. I moved toward the threshold.

"Elina." Marcus held up a hand. "Just wait here. I'll ask Camden."

The door closed.

I stood in the rain and waited.

Ten minutes later, the door opened again. Oakley came out first, walking fast, her face twisted into something that looked like panic. She stumbled near Camden's car — parked just outside the bay — and went down hard on one knee. Her hand shot out to catch herself against the hood.

"Oh my god!" She clutched her wrist, eyes wide, voice climbing. "She pushed me! She was trying to get to the car—"

"I didn't touch you," I said.

The crew poured out behind her. Marcus crouched next to Oakley. Another guy was already on his phone.

"She was messing with the brake line," Oakley gasped, cradling her wrist like it was broken. "I saw her. She was trying to—Camden could've died if I hadn't stopped her—"

"That's insane," I said. My voice sounded far away. "I've been standing outside this entire time. I didn't go near the car."

"You're calling me a liar?" Oakley's voice broke just right, tears pooling in her eyes on cue.

Camden's truck pulled into the lot. He got out, still in yesterday's clothes, and walked toward us like he already knew what he was going to hear.

Oakley ran to him. "She tried to sabotage the car. I caught her. She pushed me when I confronted her."

Camden looked at me. I waited for him to ask. To question it. To remember six years of me never lying to him about anything.

He didn't.

"Get her out of here," he said.

Security arrived in under five minutes. Two men in black jackets who didn't ask questions. One of them took my arm. I pulled away.

"My father's manuscripts are inside," I said. I was talking to Camden now, only to him. "You know what they mean. You know what they are. Just let me take them. Please."

He turned his back.

They escorted me off the property. I didn't fight. I walked to my car, got in, and sat there until my hands stopped shaking enough to drive.

Three days later, the press event was everywhere. Livestreamed. Cameras from every major motorsport outlet. Camden stood at a podium in a hotel ballroom in downtown Seattle, Oakley beside him in a white blouse and a wrist brace she didn't need.

I watched it on my phone from my apartment floor.

Camden cleared his throat. Smiled for the cameras. Then he held up a stack of papers I recognized instantly. My father's manuscripts. The pages were yellowed, edges soft from years of handling. I could see his handwriting from here.

"I want to address the recent allegations," Camden said. His voice was calm. Practiced. "For years, I worked with someone who couldn't accept that my career had outgrown her contributions. These—" He lifted the manuscripts higher. "—are the scribblings of a woman who couldn't let go. Who tried to sabotage my vehicle. Who put my life and my team at risk because she couldn't handle rejection."

The room was silent.

"I'm calling on Elina Lawson to publicly apologize to Oakley Meyer for years of manipulative behavior, and for the harm she attempted to cause."

He set the manuscripts down on the podium. Then he pulled a lighter from his pocket.

I stopped breathing.

The flame caught the corner of the first page. It curled, blackened, and spread. My father's handwriting disappeared into smoke. Twenty years of work. Every route he'd ever memorized. Every note he'd written in the margins for me.

Gone.

Camden let the pages burn until they were nothing but ash on the podium, then brushed the remains onto the floor.

The cameras kept rolling.

I sat on my apartment floor and watched my father's legacy turn to smoke on a livestream, and I felt the last thread of whatever I'd loved about Camden Walker burn away with it.

There was nothing left now. No love. No history. No reason to ever look back.

Just ash.