Wrecked (Dirty Air Series Book 3)

“So, how have you been this week?” Tom interrupts my usual counting. We’ve fallen into a comfortable pattern, with me answering a few of his questions every week. I won’t tell Connor but having someone to vent to has helped me manage my anxiety more effectively. I still get the usual trembles and what not, but it’s unavoidable while transitioning to a new medication.

“It’s been all right. I’ve been prepping for the Canadian Grand Prix and keeping busy.”

“Busy is good. And how’s your family?”

“Mum’s doing a bit better this week. For the first time in a while, Dad was able to travel for work. People think he sits around all day, but he actually sponsors some up-and-coming MMA fighters. He says sadly boxing is a dying sport.”

“MMA is pretty entertaining. And it’s good to hear your mom’s having a better week. I’m sure that helps with your stress.”

“Yeah, thank fuck. They actually asked me to stay with them during the summer break before the British Grand Prix.”This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

“How do you feel about that?”

“Good, except Elena is stuck babysitting me in London, too. That means she would spend a month with me and my parents.” I run my hand across my stubbled jaw.

“A month is a long time.”

“No shit.”

“Do you want Elena to meet them?”

“Not really. For multiple reasons, and the biggest issue is how she doesn’t know my mum is sick.”

“Is that something you want to share with her?”

“I know I can trust Elena not to say anything, but it doesn’t make the process any easier. But I honestly don’t have much of a choice.”

“What about her knowing makes it hard for you?”

“It feels like I’m knocking down the last barrier between us. She’d know everything there is to know about me.”

“And what about it makes you afraid?”

I take the deepest breath as I consider backing out of telling Tom. Instead, I power through, knowing I need to talk to someone about it. A bloody anomaly. “My mum has Huntington’s Disease.”

Tom remains quiet. His silence feeds my fear, causing me to sit up and look at him.

I hate the sadness in his eyes. I’ve grown accustomed to that look throughout my life. “You don’t need to look at me like that.”

“Shit, Jax. I’m sorry to hear that.” He shakes his head.

“This changes nothing I’ve said and the decisions I’ve made.” I fist my hands in front of me.

He taps his pen against his leg. “Have you been tested?”

“No. And I don’t want to.”

“The trembling you have and the anxiety…you’ve been worried about it, haven’t you?”

“No shit. I’m guessing you’re familiar with the disease then.”

Tom lets out a sigh. “I knew someone who was diagnosed. I would have given you other recommendations had I known this might’ve been part of the anxiety you experience.”

“Like what?”

“I’d start by asking you to consider the genetic testing rather than trying a different med to manage your symptoms. One of the very first things psychologists consider when diagnosing is any pre-existing medical condition.”

“Fuck no. That’s not an option. Plus, I’ve always been anxious, ever since I was younger. This has only made it worse.”

“Options change. You’re talking about a 50/50 chance of having Huntington’s Disease yourself. That can’t be an easy thing to sit with every day, especially if you might have a younger onset compared to your mom. It depends on the test results.”

I drop my head into my hands. Hearing it from someone who isn’t my parents doesn’t make the fact any easier to swallow. “You think I don’t know that? And I’ve already met with a genetic counselor in the past. I went through the whole process before the testing yet couldn’t go through with it. I’ve been there, done that.”

“That was an extremely brave first step.”

A cruel laugh releases from me. “Brave? I had a panic attack before entering the facility for my test. I quit before it even mattered.”

“Believe it or not, I find you attempting to take a test that could define your life forever as something incredibly courageous of you. Not everyone would sit through months of genetic counseling in the first place.” Tom’s praise has my cheeks uncharacteristically flushing.

“Yet I’m not strong enough to follow through with it,” I mutter.

“You sitting here and opening up about your fear is strong. You switching new medicines because you realize the other one wasn’t helping you is brave, especially during the middle of a season. I, for one, think you’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

I retreat back into myself, staring up at the ceiling.

Tom breaks the silence after a few minutes. “My job isn’t to push you to get tested. I can only recommend for you to think of the pros and cons. We can do that together, and see what solution is best.”

Why bother, when my life has a fifty percent chance of a shitty expiration date?

I toss and turn all night, struggling to fall asleep for hours after my P3 win for the Montreal Grand Prix. Switching over to new medication has been rougher than expected, especially with curbing the instant relief a Xan offers at bedtime.

I roll out of bed, craving a cool glass of water. Keeping quiet, I make my way toward the kitchen. The lights shining under Elena’s door have me making a detour.

She usually falls asleep after me, but 2 a.m. is a new level of sleep deprivation for her.

I open her door. “What are you doing awake past your bed—” My voice cuts off when I find her curled up under the covers fast asleep. She looks bloody peaceful and youthful, her brown hair covering the pillow while her hands clutch the white comforter.

“How the hell do you fall asleep with all the lights on?” I whisper as I brush aside some loose locks of hair from her face.

Good God, I’m becoming a creeper, watching her sleep. I take a moment to assess her room. Living on the road means we don’t have many personal mementos, so the photograph on her nightstand sticks out to me. A young Elena hangs on the back of a young man I assume is her dad. A woman stands next to him, looking like a slightly older version of Elena. They look happy and carefree.

I step away, shutting off the lamp on her nightstand before making my way toward her bathroom to turn off the light in there.

She must’ve been dead tired to fall asleep like this. Maybe she works too hard following me around all the time, including the late-night galas and traveling.

After shutting off all the lights in Elena’s room, I close her door. I grab a glass of water in the kitchen and head back toward my room, ready for a good night’s rest.