There were silences, too, but they never felt awkward. At the top of a mountain hike, we sat for an hour in silence, watching the sunlight shift over the island. I noticed him shivering about two minutes in, and when I shucked off my jacket and gave it to him, he smiled and shifted closer to me, and I remember thinking something like, What the hell had I been doing all this time? What had I been wasting my life with before him?
We were only supposed to stay for three days together, but on the night before we were supposed to leave, Jacob came into the bedroom where I was reading and chucked his phone down before settling in beside me.
“I told the owner we’re staying a while longer,” he said, shifting the bedsheets so he could slide his legs underneath them. “Unless you have somewhere else to be?”
A strange, shivery sort of warmth spread through me. “No,” I said, trying to match his offhand tone. “I don’t.”
“Good.” He shifted even closer. “I have so much more to teach you.”
His hair was damp from his shower, and his shampoo smelled like sandalwood. “Oh yeah?”
“Mm. We’ve already done mountain climbing and selfies and hand jobs.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Tomorrow we’ll get you an Instagram account and teach you what YouTube is.”
“I know what YouTube is,” I retorted. “And I don’t want an Instagram account.”
“C’mon,” he wheedled. “People would love it. Throw a few car pictures on there, add a shirtless pic from the beach, and voilà—you’ll be drowning in followers.”
“I don’t want an Instagram account,” I repeated. “What else’ve you got?”
His smile shifted. “Well, now that you mention it...” The subtle change in his tone made my heart beat differently. “I haven’t taught you anything about blow jobs, have I?”
The words worked their way over me like a warm wave of water. “You’ve taught me a little,” I said, as he leaned close and pressed his mouth to the soft patch of skin below my ear.
“Please.” His dismissive breath shivered over my neck. “One quickie in a hotel room does not an expert make.”
I put my book down and turned toward him. “I’m listening.”
He grinned. “Oh, silly boy,” he drawled, pushing the comforter aside. “I wasn’t going to teach you bytalking.”
7
Cold
The week after the crash is the longest and darkest of my life.
I’m supposed to be doing a hundred different things—scheduled interviews, sponsorship appearances, meetings with the team—but instead I flesh out my migraine excuse and beg the team to give me some time off. They send the team doctor up to see me the day after the race, and I look like such shit he barely even examines me before calling up Stefan, Harper’s team boss, and telling him I’ll need to be off for at least a week. He gives me a bottle of sumatriptan and naproxen for my “migraine” and advises plenty of fluids and rest. I need to be ready to race again in Austria in two weeks.
The team pays for me to stay in the hotel suite an extra week, and after the doctor leaves, I fall asleep for the first time in two days and sleep for almost fourteen hours. When I wake, there’s an awful, stupid moment of confusion where I forget what’s happened. I stretch my hand out to Jacob’s side of the bed, and when my hand hits the cold sheets, I remember all over again.
I can’t bring myself to move any of his things, except his sweater, which I can’t seem to let go of. I almost wear it to the hospital, but then I worry it might start smelling like a hospital instead of him. I tuck it under the sheets, put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, and then go to the front desk to double-check that no one will go into my room. They look at me funny, but I don’t care. I have to get back to the hospital, and if I come back and find some housekeeper’s moved Jacob’s coffee cup, or something, I think I might lose it.
I manage to find the right hospital parking garage this time, following the signs for USI, and as I ride up the elevator to the ninth floor, a rich-looking couple riding with me exchange a furtive look. For a second I wonder if they’ve recognized me, but then I catch a glimpse of myself in the elevator doors after they step out on the seventh floor. I still haven’t showered—I couldn’t bring myself to do it, not when I saw Jacob’s shampoo sitting on the shower ledge—and I look absolutely disgusting. My hair is dirty beneath my ball cap, and my skin is pale and rough with stubble. I must smell like garbage.
There’s no one in the waiting room today, and the door to the unit is open. A ward clerk is on high alert just inside the doors.
“Bonjour,” she says. “Qui êtes-vous venu voir?”
“Er—Jacob Nichols?” I say, cursing my rudimentary French. Her mouth purses into a frown.
“No press,” she says firmly. “No media.”
“I’m not press,” I say. “He’s a friend.” She still looks doubtful, so I force myself to add, “I’m a driver.”
“Hm,” she says, still frowning. “ID, s’il vous plaît?”
I dig out my driver’s license and hand it over. She pulls out her own phone, and I see her type my name into a search engine. Amoment later, she looks up. “Ah. You drive in Formula 1, yes? Allez-y.” She waves me onward. “Room nine-two-four.”
My feet slow as I approach the room. I don’t know what I’ll do if Jacob’s family is in there. But the door is ajar and by some miracle there’s absolutely no one inside. A rough noise slips out of my throat as I rush to Jacob’s side.
