Heather pulls a face. “Well...”
My chest tightens. “You think he’s right?”
She holds her hands up in defense. “Try to think of it from their point of view. Their son worked his ass off through karting and junior racing and F3, then he starts winning races in F2 and getting some serious interest from F1 teams—oh, don’t look so surprised, I Googled him after the crash,” she adds, seeing my face. “And then he gets in this huge, horrible accident, and it looks like his whole future’s been derailed. There’s maybe this tiny, minuscule chance he’ll ever make it back to where he was, and they’re clinging to that idea... but then, bam! They find out about you.”
I look at my hands. “I don’t want to wreck his career.”
“Of course you don’t. But think about what happens if this story breaks. The media freaks out when you have a migraine, for Christ’s sake. You’d be F1’s first openly gay driver, and Jacob’s name would be dragged into the spotlight right along with yours.”
I stab a piece of chicken with my fork. I don’t want to admit it, but I’m starting to see what she means.
“That label would follow Jacob everywhere, you know it would. If he got back out racing, the news reports wouldn’t say ‘Jacob Nichols gets back into racing after tragic crash,’ they’d say ‘Travis Keeping’s boyfriend returns to racing.’ And an unfortunate amount of people are dicks, and they’ll be ignorant and hateful. And then if he ever gets into F1, what are people going to say?”
I swallow hard. I’d never thought of that. If everyone knows we’re dating... people might say I pulled strings for him. Never mind the fact that’s not at all how F1 works. People will still whisper.
Heather sighs. “I’m just saying, it’s fair that they’re worried.”
“Yeah.” I exhale heavily. “I guess. But what am I supposed to do? He’s... he could die.” My chest spasms as the fear resurfaces. “I have to be there.”
“Of course you have to be there,” Heather says. “But you might want to talk to his parents again. Reassure them that you won’t do anything to hurt him or his future.”
“I’m not great at talking to people. I’d fuck it up.”
“Maybe.” Heather shrugs. “But you have to try. Plan out what you want to say to them, and then ask them to hear you out.”
I nod once, then again. She makes everything seem so straightforward, somehow. “I guess I could do that.”
“You can definitely do it,” she corrects. “But not right now. Right now you need to shower and change and sleep a little. Seriously, you look like hell.”
I crack a smile. “I can clean up the kitchen after,” I offer, as she starts running water to clean the dishes.
“Nonsense,” she says briskly. “Get your ass in the shower and don’t come out until you’ve been in there half an hour. I’m sick of looking at your mangy face.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
She shoots me a tiny wink. “Don’t worry about it. We’re in this together now, babe.”
14
I Know
When I get out of the shower, Heather is gone, leaving the hotel suite spotless and a plate of oven-warm cookies on my bed, next to some flannel pajama pants and a soft gray T-shirt. It’s only five, but after eating about ten cookies and downing a glass of milk, I crawl into bed and fall asleep.
I wake to the buzzing of my phone on the nightstand. I fumble for it, still half asleep, and squint at the vaguely familiar-looking number. Something clicks in my brain, and I realize it’s the hospital line. It must be Dr. Martin. My heart lodges in my throat as I swipe it open.
“Hello?” I croak.
“It’s me.”
I sit bolt upright in bed.
“Jacob,” I breathe. “Hey.”
“My parents just left.” His voice is still rough from lack of use, but he doesn’t sound quite as hazy anymore.
“I’ll be there in ten,” I say.
The nasty blond nurse is nowhere to be seen when I get there. Instead, it’s my surly friend Jean who lets me into the unit and offers to bring me a cup of coffee.
