“No, sir,” I say, because I already know the answer to that question. No psychologist in their right mind is going to tell Harper that their ten-million-pound driver should skip a few races. Even if they did, there’s no way the team would listen.
“Are you sure?” the doctor asks.
“I’m sure.”
He frowns. “Well, if you change your mind...”
When he’s gone, I collapse on the hotel bed, pull Jacob’s sweater out from under the pillow, and breathe in the familiar smell. Fatigue is hitting hard, and with Jacob finally doing a tiny bit better, I think I might actually be able to sleep a few hours. But the moment I close my eyes, my phone buzzes with a message from Harper’s travel coordinator, Connor.
Heard the doc cleared you, great news. Booked you a flight out tonight. Sending ticket through now, Clara will send you an updated press schedule.
A minute later, an e-mail pops up with a ticket from Le Castellet, France, to Spielberg, Austria. It’s only a two-hour flight away, and I suppose I should be grateful the next five races are all in Europe, but I’m not. A two-hour flight away from the hospital... I might as well be on a separate continent.
The flight Connor booked me leaves at seven, but the airport’s only about ten minutes up the road, so I let myself sleep for two hours. I take pictures of the hotel room before I finally startpacking. It’s stupid, but I can’t help it. If Jacob dies, I’ll probably go mad staring at these pictures, trying to remember our last moments together.
I steal the coffee cup he used, too, which is idiotic, but I can’t bring myself to leave it there. At the checkout desk, I tell the smiling clerk I broke a cup and to put it on my bill.
“No problem,” she says brightly. “Have a great day!”
I nod stiffly, unsmiling. I drive to the airport, drop off the rental car, and find the PA the Harper team sent. I vaguely recognize her from my years on the team. Her name is Heather, I think, and she’s got long dark hair and hundreds of freckles. She greets me politely but doesn’t try to chitchat as she guides me to some private waiting area. She vanishes for a spell and returns with a burger and a milkshake, neither of which is on my dietary plan. Not that I’m worried about gaining weight. I’ve eaten maybe one full meal in the last week.
“Your trainer sent me a four-page e-mail about acceptable foods,” she says, sitting down opposite me and opening a laptop. “Let’s just pretend I didn’t get it, shall we?” She pulls her hair back and clicks at her computer before glancing at me again and adding, “Besides, you look like you need it.”
I manage a thin smile. She types rapidly while I eat, though I get the feeling she’s watching to make sure I finish everything. She nods in approval when I’m done and whisks away the garbage. Someone tries to approach me as she returns—a drunk-looking jackass in a business suit who seems like he has every intention of sitting down and talking to me—and she waves him away while speaking in very loud, rapid Spanish. The guy looks utterly flustered and retreats. I find myself giving her the smallest smile. I wonder if this is what it feels like to have an older sister.
The airplane is small and barely half full. Heather and I sit in the front, with her in the aisle seat to scare off anyone who might approach me. As the plane lifts into the sky, I put on headphones and close my eyes, but no matter how hard I try, sleep doesn’t come for me.
10
Insomnia
Jacob was never a good sleeper until he started sleeping with me.
The first time he told me that, I tucked the fact away like a treasure, iron-clad proof that he was meant to be with me. We’d been together for something like six months, stealing days in London here and there and spending nights together on overlapping race weekends. It was early December, and the F1 season was about to end. I’d managed another three wins since Austria, but then had a spell of bad luck with engine trouble and poorly timed safety cars, and Mahoney had won the championship two races ago. The lowest I could finish was third, even if I crashed out of the last race. No one else was close enough in points to get past me.
“Next year,” Jacob told me, the night before the last race of the season. “I can feel it.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Secretly, I was thrilled by his belief in me, but I was just barely cool enough to hide it. I pulled off my shirt and crawled into bed, fighting a yawn. “You staying tonight?”
Sitting on top of the covers beside me, Jacob glanced at the clock. It was only ten p.m., but I always tried to get to sleep early before races. Plus, we were in Abu Dhabi, and my internal clock was completely messed up.
“Mm, sure,” Jacob said finally, standing to pull off his own jeans and shirt. “I always sleep better with you.”
My heart stilled for just a moment. I had to force myself to match his casual tone. “You sleep like the dead. I don’t think I can take any credit.”
“I’m actually a total insomniac.” Jacob crawled under the covers and slid an arm around my waist. “I’ve lived my whole life on, like, four hours of sleep.”
My arms went around him automatically. “I’ve seen you sleep twelve hours before.”
“Mm.” He pushed his head into the crook of my shoulder. “All you, Keeping. You’re, like, Ambien for my soul.”
My heart skittered foolishly in my chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mm-hm.” I felt his smile against my skin. While I lay there, trying not to grin at the ceiling, he let out a sigh. “I’m not that tired right now, though.”
He said it with a grin and a subtle press of his hips.
