“Fun times…” Pita said this with a healthy dose of nostalgia, and although likely unintentional, her tone communicated more than her words did: they weren’t fun times anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I told her quietly enough I wasn’t sure she heard me over the storm.

But she did, because she said, “For what?”

“I’ve changed.”

“We’ve both changed, Jack. Everyone changes.”

“I’m not the same person I was.”

“Because you can’t race.” It sounded less like a statement and more like an accusation.

I didn’t answer.

“Dammit, Jack,” she said. “I know. Okay? I get it. Racing was a big part of your life. You can’t do it anymore. Okay. But…stop looking back. You had a good career—”

“Four years.”

“And you did more in those four years than most professional racers do in ten.”

“I could have been great.”

“You were great!”

“I mean the records—”

“Screw the records, Jack! You’re lucky you didn’t die.”

“I actually did.”

“Well, you didn’t stay dead. That’s a pretty impressive accomplishment. So you should be thankful for that, for being alive. Why can’t you just accept what happened and move on?”

“You don’t understand…”

“No, I don’t!”

“Didn’t you hear what I told you, Pita? I’m not the same fucking person. If I’m not a race car driver, who am I? What do you propose I do with the rest of my life?”

“The rest of your life? You only had another five years of racing anyway.”

“Ten, minimum. More like fifteen, even twenty.”

“Why don’t you at least consider broadcasting? Your agent—”

“I’m not going to sit in a booth and watch other people race.”

“It’s better than doing nothing, Jack. And that’s what you’re doing now. Nothing. You’re miserable, and that’s made me miserable. Don’t you see that?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So do something about it other than drinking yourself silly every night.”

“Fuck off.”

“You don’t think you have a problem?”

“I’ve never said that.”

“You’re an alcoholic, Jack.”

I stiffened. I didn’t like that word. It brought to mind images of bums sitting on the street, begging for change. But I suppose I was an alcoholic—just one with money.

“What?” Pita said when I didn’t respond. “You’re going to ignore me now? You know, lately, if I didn’t start a conversation, we would never talk.”

“You want to talk about why I drink?” I snapped.

“I know why you drink,” she said.

I shook my head. “It’s not just that I can’t race…” I hesitated, wondering if I should tell her what was on the tip of my tongue, and decided why the hell not. “It’s…being here,” I finished.

Pita frowned. “Being here? This island? We just came today—”

“Mexico,” I told her.

Silence.