All the questions at today's media debrief have been more or less the same: how does it feel to be back on home turf (like saving the sweetest strawberry until all the others are gone, but then having to fight two-dozen hungry bears for it), will there be a repeat of my grid eye-candy from Italy (nope, Dad is doing the shade-holding honors this time), and when will I be announcing my plans for next season (you'll be the first to know, Karen.) There haven't been any direct references to my teammate, but that could be because since Mugello he's gone on an Instagram bender of selfies with hot-chicks. Or maybe because he's standing right next to me.

With the way things have been over the last week and a half, though, Seb may as well be on the other side of the planet. Irrespective of where we were before, we've gone all Stranger Things and ended up in the Upside Down.

Actually, this applies to everything in my life right now. Shane and I still aren't talking, but I intend to eventually get that sorted when I don't have a million other fires to put out. I think Tanner may also be trying to get with me again, and I'm going to bye Felicia his ass at some point if he continues with this nonsense. And—as if the motorsport angels themselves came down from heaven—there was finally a somewhat complimentary article written about me. I still have it bookmarked on my phone. Hopefully it won't be the last time I get mentioned in conjunction with WRRF.

This weekend's run of the World Road Racing Federation's last race of the season at the Laguna Seca Raceway in northern California could prove to be an historic event. As the first woman in WRRF 3Prix, Lauren Dimas—who will be riding on her home circuit—has a good chance to finally finish in a points-earning position. Dimas, who started riding motorcycles when she was five, debuted in international competition in August of this year when she stepped in as a replacement rider for Cadmium Racing Team's Austin Harris. Riding a 250cc Ducati, she has improved in qualifiers with every race, starting as high as twentieth among a field that usually tops out over thirty. Technical problems plagued the eighteen-year-old American's weekend in Cataluna where she was unable to start the race in an unlucky turn of events, while an unfortunate bout with the flu cut her race short in Mugello. But with a sixteenth place finish on Germany's Sachsenring in a wet race that saw championship leaders like Diego Martin and Tobei Kojima retire early, Lauren Dimas has shown that she could have what it takes to succeed in world 3Prix. Her performance during this race may decide whether we will see more of this up-and-coming star—who has shaken up the series in more ways than just stunts like using Mr. Florence 2018 Sergio Gastoni to serve as her "umbrella girl" on the Italian grid (picture, right)—in future world events.

I wish this could now solve all my problems, but the most it can do is convince a couple of more people to come out to the race this weekend. It'll do nothing to solve this wedge between me and Seb.

Still, I don't think it's totally my fault. After our disastrous conversation in the med center, I thought about contacting him. It was all a misunderstanding. I didn't mean what he thought I meant. But every time I started the text—sorry for . . .—I couldn't finish. What was I sorry for? For him misunderstanding? For him jumping to conclusions as soon as he heard me say another guy's name? For him not realizing that I was not in the best frame of mind right about then?

Or should I have been sorry for me not wanting to get all kissy-faced when I felt like hell? Or for me having other friends in the paddock besides him?

Nah. More like sorry, not sorry. He always says I apologize too much, anyway.

By the time I'd decided to abandon the apology and just point out where we got our signals crossed, he'd moved on. I mean, what else would you call a former social media recluse suddenly posting dozens of pics almost exclusively with female fans? It's like he was trying to rub it in or something.

Not that I'd been looking.

I unscrew the top of my water bottle and take a drink. Ow. I must have put too much strain on my shoulder during last night's dirt track session with Cam. I hope she gets off work soon. There are a couple of tacos at Casa Mexicana with our names on them. I do have to wait another three years to be legal for the tequila unless we pop over to Germany.

Germany. Fuck. Why did I have to think of that? If it weren't for that night in the bar . . .

I look back up at my teammate. Dressed in his usual off-track paddock gear of cargo shorts and team shirt, he's laughing with a reporter from a Canadian outlet. We've truly come full circle since that first press conference in Sepang, but today I'm playing the grumpy one. Thank god we're almost done. As soon as they finish and I answer a question or two, I am so out of here for the day.

"So what do you think about the rumors of possible changes to the World Road Racing Federation rules next year expanding the selection of tires that manufacturers can bring to a race from two to three?" the reporter asks Seb.

It's the first time I've heard this particular question today, so I'm curious about his answer.

"I do not think it is a good thing if we can still only have ten fronts and a maximum five of each type," he says. "What if the conditions are not as expected and we choose wrong, but our competitors get it right? That is a bigger risk and it puts too much on chance, not skill."

"I see your teammate nodding her head," the reporter says, looking at me. "Lauren, unlike many of the other racers I've talked to, you seem to agree with Seb."

I hadn't realized I was being so obvious in my eavesdropping, and I back way. "Oh, no. This is Seb's interview," I say, trying to dismiss the invitation. We usually do these one-on-ones separately, but my teammate grabs my elbow and pulls me into frame.

"It is okay. Please," he says, nodding.

"All right." I step closer, feeling his touch on my skin even after he lets go. "So you were asking about the revised tire rules?"

"Yes, and Seb seems to be saying that too many options aren't the way to go. Do you feel the same?" the reporter asks.

"I do," I say, glancing at my teammate. "Like Seb said, the teams would be stuck with their two picks for the whole race weekend. If you got the correct two out of three then great, but what if you made a mistake? Then the teams who picked right would have an advantage. Right now, everyone only has two options, which levels the field." I pause, unsure whether to add one more thing. Screw it, I have nothing to lose. "The proposed rule change is only to make riders potentially faster, anyway," I blurt out the controversial opinion before taking a half-step back.

"I completely agree." Seb throws up his hands enthusiastically. Smiling, he turns to me and touches my arm again, as if there was never any weirdness. "This is what I say to Nigel. It is not about safety or rider comfort. It is about having a more exciting race for the viewers."

I smile back. God, I've missed talking to him. "I know, right?"

"Ahem." Nicola clears her throat in the most fake way possible to get our attention. Holding a garment bag over one shoulder, she's waving from across the tent. "Lauren, can I borrow you for a bit?"

Shit. What did I do this time?

"Excuse me." I reluctantly make my apologies—of course Nicola would get me when things started to go well—and mentally prepare for another talking-to. "What's up?" I ask when I join her.

"My blood pressure, if I have to carry this thing around much longer," she says, nodding to the bulky load with a grimace. "Come with me."

"Why? Where? What is that, anyway?" I fire off the questions, following on Nicola's heels. The woman is small, but she sure is fast.

"Because I said so. To the garage. And your new leathers." Her tone increases in annoyance with each phrase as she crossed the alley between the media tent and the pits.

This isn't an unusual reaction (well, for her), but that last thing is unexpected. New leathers? "Why? I still have two unused suits."

Pausing to let a scooter pass, Nicola looks over her shoulder. "Not like this you don't." Power-walking to the garage's rear door, she twists the handle and steps inside. After hanging the bag on a wall peg, she waits for me before unzipping it.

I swear to god, my jaw literally drops open at the sight of the pristine white suit. Designs from my Persephone helmet including dozens of flowers decorate the left leg up to the thigh, while at the wrists, the gold meander line wraps around like cuffs. Unlike my usual black suit with just its boring old sponsor logos and purple accents, this is officially baller. Only the "DIMAS" sewn on the back makes me believe it's truly mine.

"You are amazing," I say to Nicola who is smiling smugly beside me. "I take back every mean thing I ever said about you."

Her lips drop into a frown. "What things? You weren't always kittens and rainbows, but I don't remember you being mean."

I wink. "Oh, I didn't say them to your face."

"You know, in a strange way I think I'm going to miss you," she says in the most Nicola way possible. Of course she'd say something nice just after I openly insult her.

"Thank you," I say, knowing this will probably be the closest we'll ever get to sharing our feelings, but not quite able to bring myself to return the sentiment. "But why? I mean, why the new suit?"

She steps around me and points across the garage. "To go with the new paint job, of course."

It takes me a sec for the next surprise to register. Propped up on stands, my number eighty-three bike has gotten its own makeover. The yellow and black fairings are gone. In their place, the same white base with the Persephone scheme decorates the Ducati.

"Ho-ly shit," I accentuated each syllable as my eyes widened.

Nicola drags me closer. "You like it?"

I touch a baby-blue poppy anemone flower on the gas tank and nod. One-off colors are usually reserved for top riders or special occasions. It was the last thing I expected for my final race, and the gesture means more than I can describe. "I don't know what to say." I sniffle.

"Don't start crying on me, now," Nicola laughs. "This will be a big race for the whole team, and it's your last chance to deliver. Don't screw it up."

"So this is a bribe, then?" I ask jokingly. Having a new paint job won't make the bike faster, but the knowledge that Cadmium is willing to invest additional time and money into aesthetics for the very last race doesn't escape my notice. They know I can do better than sixteenth place, now I just have to make it happen.

Nicola tilts her head and scrunches her nose. "More like an incentive."

So I was right. They put in something extra, now they're looking for me to do the same.

I laugh—both at the insane amount of pressure that suddenly falls on me, as well at this new and improved (and less stick-up-the-butt) Nicola—just as my phone rings. It's my agent, and my heart rate accelerates. I hold up my index finger. "Sorry, but I have to get this." After turning away, I swipe the screen. "Hey, Celia."

As usual, there's no greeting. "How badly do you want to stay in World 3Prix for next season?" she asks.

I bite my lip. Well, that's a loaded question. "Why?" I ask cautiously.

Celia takes a deep breath. "Because I just might have an offer, but I need to know how much you're willing to compromise."

Well, hell. The surprises just keep coming, don't they?