I sit down across from her but don’t touch the food. I have no appetite at all. “It’s his parents,” I say angrily. “Or his brother. They must’ve said something to him.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
I pick up a piece of naan and tear pieces off without eating them. I remember the way Jacob’s eyes flicked to the nurse, and the way he pulled his hand away from me.
“What is it?” Heather asks, watching me.
I tear off another piece of naan. “It’s just... even if they did say something to him, he’s not a kid. He could stand up to them.”
Heather winces. “True. But it’s hard for some people to go against their parents, no matter how old they are.”
“Yeah, I know, but—” I break off abruptly, stumbling over a sudden thought.
“What?”
I shake my head. I was going to say, “But if he really loved me,” but Jacob never told me that he loved me. I said it to him, but he never said it back.
And if he heard me say it all those months ago, then he knew all that time how I felt. He would’ve known that if he said it to me, I’d say it back.
But he never did. He never actually said that he loved me.
Heather is talking again, suggesting I go back to the hospital and talk to Jacob again, saying, “He might not have meant it” and “He might need some time,” but I shake my head. I saw the look in his eyes at the hospital. He’s done with me. And I’m not going to humiliate myself any further by begging him to change his mind.
“Can you get us a flight out?” I ask, cutting Heather off mid-sentence. “First thing?”
She opens her mouth as though about to disagree, then seems to think better of it. She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Course I can.”
She heads off to her room shortly after. I think she can sense that I want to be alone.
I pace pointlessly around the hotel room after she’s gone. I should pack, or get a shower, or dosomething, but my muscles are heavy, dead weight hanging from my bones. I sink down onto the couch, and then I just lie there, staring up at the ceiling, until the sun slips from the sky and the whole room goes black.
The next F1 race is in the UK—Silverstone, my pseudo-home race. I’m not British, really, but I do have my permanent resident card. I was born in Canada, just outside of Toronto, but I only lived there for six years before my dad moved us to London. I’ve been to a few Canadian cities for karting and racing, and I’ve wanted to do a road trip across Canada for the longest time.
Jacob and I used to talk about doing it over F1’s summer break.
Heather and I checked out of our hotel in France the day after Jacob ended things, and we’ve been in London ever since. My place feels barren and empty now that I’ve boxed up Jacob’s things. He didn’t ever leave much stuff here, but there were some sweaters and toiletries and pictures on the fridge of places we’ve been, and stuff I only bought because of him, like the Xbox and the old N64. Heather suggested we burn it all, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Burning it would be helpful if I was angry, but I’m not angry. I’m just flat and hollow.
“You need to lean into the awfulness at first,” Heather advises me, one night at my place. Her boyfriend, Hunter, is with us, too.He’s a muscly, six-foot-tall blond guy who’s really into veganism and sustainability. It’s sort of weird, given how many burgers I’ve seen Heather eat, but they fit together. Like I used to think Jacob and I did.
“Not true,” Hunter counters. “You need to stay busy. Distract yourself with work. Go out on the rebound, see how many kick-ass gay guys there are out there. What?” he adds, as Heather scoffs. “I knowsomany guys I could hook him up with. My trainer’s gay, and my nutritionist—”
“Jesus, please don’t start dating a vegan,” Heather begs me. “They never fucking shut up about it.”
Hunter grins and raises his water glass in a toast. “Damn straight.”
“I don’t want to date anyone else,” I say. “I’ll just stay single forever. It’s easier.”
“That’s the spirit,” Heather says. “Lean into the awful.” Then she hops off the kitchen counter to rummage through my cupboards for something to eat.
She and Hunter have been here almost every day since we got back from France. The first time they knocked on my door with their arms full of takeout containers, I only grudgingly let them in. I wanted to be alone in my misery. But no matter how I acted, no matter how little I spoke, they kept showing up. And since Brian is gone and hasn’t yet been replaced, Heather is acting as my trainer and cat-herder (her words, not mine). As the Silverstone GP approaches, she’s with me from dawn till dusk, sneaking me coffee during engineering meetings and pinching me on the arm when I get too surly in interviews.
I don’t talk to Matty until Friday morning, just before FP1. Heather has been whisked away to do some PR work, and I’m sitting alone in my trailer, throwing a ball against the wall.Theoretically, this is supposed to be a reflex exercise, but instead I’m just losing myself in each slow, depressing thump.
“Yo, Keeping!” Matty raps on the door and pushes it open in the same movement. He’s already in his race gear, holding his helmet loosely in one hand. His broad smile drops when he sees me. “Oh fuck, what’s happened?”
“What?”
“You look like shit. Is Jacob alright?”
