I let out a long breath. Despite what Amanda must think, I’m not actually an idiot. I know I have issues with being bi. And I’ve always known, in a distant sort of way, that someday I’d have to face up to them. But the truth is, the thought of dating a guy doesn’t scare me nearly as much as the thought of datinganyoneseriously. The thought of... opening up to someone.
Even thinking the words makes me cringe. I’ve never been—to use Amanda’s stupid therapy words—“emotionally vulnerable” with anyone. My high school girlfriend and I dated for three years and had a great time together, but she was an easygoing, pragmatic kind of girl, and I was away a lot of the time for racing. I liked her a lot, but I never felt like I lived or died on our relationship. More than anything, we felt like good friends who just happened to have sex.
Since her, I’ve never dated any girl longer than a few months, and I’ve never had anything but one-night stands with guys. And if I look back on the girls I’ve dated... honestly, I knew going in that I wasn’t in any danger of falling for any of them. That’s probably a large part of why I went out with them in the first place. I was always nice to them, always respectful and attentive and all that, but I never reallycared. I never let things get serious. I never wanted anything serious.
Then Travis Keeping walked into that TV interview at the Austrian Grand Prix, with his insane answers to that reporter’s game (what kind of psychopath likes rain more than sun?) and his empty Photos folder and his weird spa music. He was so obviously interested in me, and so shockingly different from the stoic figure he cut in the press, and from our very first moments together, I felt in control.
It’s a shitty thing to admit, but it’s true. I had all the power, and all the experience. Because it wasn’t just that he was a huge F1 star. He was a huge F1 star who’d never kissed anyone, never slept with anyone, never even had a close friend before me. And for some reason, he was ridiculously into me, and not even remotely able to hide it. I had all the control, and I knew it.
I think that feeling of control lured me into a false sense of security. I was so confident I had Travis on a string, I didn’t notice the warning signs. Thinking about him all the time. Texting him more and more frequently. Finding any excuse to go to London to spend time with him. I told myself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just a fun, casual thing, but the truth crept up on me, as it so inevitably does.
The first time I realized I was in trouble was in Montreal. It was always one of my favorite Grand Prix weekends. I liked the city, the track, the restaurants. A girl I knew from high school, Talia, worked as a chef there. She and I had kept in touch a bit over the years, and I sent her a message a few days before to see if there were any new restaurants I should check out.
My message wasn’t meant to be suggestive—if anything, I had a half-baked plan of taking Travis to whatever place she recommended—but she sent back a winky face and said she’d love to go with me to check out a new place.
My first thought when I read her message was,I can’t, I’m not single.
My next thought wasFuck.
It was coupled with an enormous wave of panic, and if I’d been an emotionally mature, self-actualized person, I would have realized where the panic stemmed from and told Talia no, I couldn’t go out with her, because I was already dating somebody else.
Instead, I said yes to prove to myself that I could, and tried to convince myself that Travis wouldn’t care. Or that even if he did care, it didn’t matter, because I had to make it clear to him that whatever we had between us wasn’t a serious thing. That he didn’t have any power over me, didn’t have any hold on my heart.
But that damn look on his face when I told him. Like I’d slapped him, or pulled the rug out from under his feet.
I pretended not to notice, not to care, but then it was ten o’clock that night, and I was sitting across from this pretty, interesting, perfectly dateable girl, and all I could think of was Travis. Alone in his hotel room, being sad about me. I had all the power in our relationship, and I was using it to hurt him.
A mature person would have politely excused himself from dinner and headed straight to Travis to have a serious talk. Instead, I got plastered to silence my fears, and made a slurred, barely coherent admission in his doorway.All yours, I told him.All yours.
I don’t remember the trip to his hotel, or what I said to Talia when I left the restaurant, but I do remember the look on his face after I told him that. And I remember the look on his face the next morning, when I sat down next to him on the couch and hooked my chin over his shoulder. I had made him happy, really happy, and damn it if it wasn’t like a drug. I got addicted to it, that feeling of making him happy. I let myself open up to him, because I liked how much he liked it.
And then, six months after our first night together, he stood in his kitchen in London and told me he loved me.
I remember exactly how it felt. It was just like the start of my first race in Formula 2. I started in sixth, but I got an amazing run off the line and was in second place by the end of turn one. There was one moment of huge, leaping joy—then someone slammed into the side of my car, and I went cold all over with terror. I wasn’t scared of being injured, but of crashing out of my very first race. In that split second, I had a vision of being dumped by my team, laughed at in the press, my whole racing career crumbling into nothingness.
Maybe that vision was a prophecy, now that I think about it.
Anyway. That brilliant, leaping joy followed by a wave of utter terror, that’s how I felt when Travis told me that he loved me.
I pretended not to hear him, pulling out my earbud and saying, “Sorry?” and hoping to hell he wouldn’t have the confidence to say it again. I saw him panic, watched him falter, and then I walked out of his house with my whole body trembling.
I went for a run with my friend Nate, who was visiting London, and tried to listen while he told me about his new girlfriend, a flight attendant.
“She has the wildest stories about people on planes,” he said. “I swear they should make a TV show out of it. She’s crazy good at calming people down. She could be, like, a hostage negotiator for the FBI, or something.”
I made a vague noise of agreement, and he kept on talking, his affection for her spilling out in every story. I was tempted to ask him if he loved her, and if so, how he knew.
I convinced him to go for dinner afterward, as an excuse to stay out a little longer, but by nine o’clock he was eager to get back to his girlfriend. I was not eager to get back to Travis. I was cold and jittery and anxious, and sorely tempted to do something incredibly stupid, like go to a bar and get trashed.
I was just sensible enough to know what a bad idea that would be. Instead, I sat on the front steps of Travis’ house for an hour or more, shivering and trying to think about nothing. I would have happily stayed out there all night, but the cold finally drove me inside. I opened the door quietly, hoping Travis would be asleep. It wasn’t that late, but he went to bed early most nights.
The kitchen and living room were dark, but yellow light spilled from Travis’ open bedroom door. I went completely still at the sight of it. If turning around and bolting had been a viable option, I would have done it.
Somehow, I forced myself to walk forward. Travis was reading a book in bed, his legs stretched out in front of him. He looked up when I entered and said, “Hey.”
I didn’t answer him. I was caught in his warm, easy smile, my heart pounding like it was trying to escape my chest. I don’t know how I’d ever tried to convince myself this was a casual thing. It wasn’t casual, the way that he looked at me. It wasn’t casual, the way I felt when he looked at me.
I cleared my throat and turned away. “I’m gonna grab a shower.”
