He leaned back again and tilted his head, looking at me.
“Well?” he said.
“Well, what?” I asked, hating the way my voice cracked.
He grinned and leaned forward, and then suddenly his whole body was pressed up against mine. I could feel the hard planes of his chest, and the hardness farther down, pressing against me. Honestly, the feel of it made me seriously consider fleeing. This was madness—absolute fucking madness.
“Impress me,” he murmured, sliding both hands around my neck.
His mouth was inches from mine. It should’ve been nothing to close the gap, but instead it took every ounce of courage I had. It was the first time I’d ever kissed anyone, and I didn’t have the guts to do anything but brush my lips once over his. Still, it was devastating. Life-altering. I kissed him again—I couldn’t help myself—and this time his hands slid into my hair and pulled me closer. The first sweep of his tongue against mine was like a hot brand pressed to my spine. He pressed himself against me, his hips moving against mine, and within ten minutes of his hands and lips and tongue, my breathing had gone ragged. I was—close. Embarrassingly close. And by the little chuckle Jacob gave as he pulled away, I think he knew it.
“It’s alright,” he drawled. “I’ll give you a free pass this time. Next time, though... next time, I’ll set the bar a little higher.”
Then he slid his arm around my waist, pulled me tight against him, and kissed me so hard I saw stars.
5
Race Day
I don’t usually get scared before a race. There’s always a sense of anticipation, always some nerves, but never all-out fear. But today, as I wait for the lights to go out, I’m icy with it.
Jacob survived the night. Survived the second surgery. My doctor friend from the stairwell, Dr. Ines Martin, told me that just before I left the hospital. I should’ve been more relieved, but her eyes were worried and her voice was cautious, warning me not to get hopeful. It’s still bad, she said. Still very bad.
I tried to get in to see him around six a.m., family be damned, only to be told politely but firmly by a ward clerk that the nurses were doing their morning rounds, and no one, not even family, was allowed in.
Now, I’m going two hundred miles an hour down the straight at Circuit Paul Ricard, and it’s a good thing I’ve driven this track before, because my brain sure as hell isn’t telling my body what to do.
I tortured myself all night on my cell phone, reading every article I could on the crash, but they all said the same thing, so Istarted stalking Jacob’s friends on Instagram instead. His closest friends said nothing, except some who’d known Parrot and posted photos of him. Some of Jacob’s more distant acquaintances posted long, narcissistic posts about how devastated they were. His ex-girlfriend, a model, posted a photo of the two of them on a beach together, arms wrapped around each other, with the caption “You never know what you’ve got until you might lose it.”
It got two thousand likes and about three hundred comments. A news site even reposted it with the caption “Nichols’ girlfriend mourns as F2 driver remains in ICU.”
Girlfriend. The whole world thinks she’s his fuckinggirlfriend. She and Jacob dated for about three months, nearly two years ago. But now everyone thinks she’s his goddamn girlfriend.
In desperation, I even tracked down his friend Nate’s e-mail address and sent him a message asking if he’d heard anything. He answered within a half hour—Sorry man, nothing yet. He probably thought it was weird I’d even asked. None of his friends know about him. About us.
My car barrels around turn one and an image flashes in my mind, Costa’s and Jacob’s cars smashing into Parrot’s. We held a minute of silence for Parrot before this race. His younger sister and his father were there, and the two of them cried silently through the whole thing. In a horrible, despicable way, I was jealous of them. At least they got to show their grief.
Meanwhile, all morning, people asked me what I thought of the crash, and I had to pretend to feel nothing. Or at least, to feel no more than any other driver who hadn’t known the racers well. Matty, my teammate, was one of the first to find me.
“Did you get my texts, man?” he asked, the minute I saw him. His expression was unusually grave. “It’s so fucked up. I know all those guys.”
“Nichols and Costa might still be fine,” one of Harper’s engineers chimed in.
Matty’s face was grim. “Even if they pull through, though, there’s no way they come out of it without some kind of brain injury. At those speeds?” He shook his head. “No way.”
It’s stupid, I know, but until that moment I hadn’t thought about brain injuries. Something must’ve shown in my face, because Matty frowned at me. “You alright, man? You look like shit.”
“M’fine,” I muttered.
But I’m not fine. I’m not even close to fine, and I’m definitely not safe to be racing right now. The g-forces in F1 cars are always intense, but I’m so exhausted right now that my vision is going spotty in the corners, and my head feels like it’s clamped in a vise. I’m driving so poorly that my race engineer is asking if something’s gone wrong with the car. I pick up my pace automatically, but I’ve already been overtaken by two cars, and there’s a third coming up close behind me.
Brain injuries. It’s all I can think about. It’s what Parrot died from. That isn’t public knowledge, but I overheard the track medics talking about it earlier. They weren’t gossiping, just talking about it in these low, hollow tones, like they’d never seen anything so awful.
Fifty-two laps later, I cross the line in tenth place. It’s my worst finish this season, and I’m grateful for a reason to look pissy and miserable as I step out of the car. I disappear into my trailer for a few minutes, but there’s no escaping my obligations. I’ve got a press conference to do, and I just know all the damn questions they’re going to ask.
There are only five of us being interviewed—Mahoney and Clayton from Crosswire Racing, Josh Fry from Torrent, me, and Matty, who wound up finishing third from P7. The reporterssettle in front of us in unusual silence. No one feels like celebrating today.
“Alright, first question from Sky1,” someone says. A beleaguered-looking reporter with gray hair stands up. I think his name’s Pat.
