“?’Scuse me!” The moment was broken as a man appeared from around the corner, lugging a heavy crate on one shoulder. I stepped forward to get out of his way, and suddenly I was about six inches from Jacob. When I stepped back again, my legs were unsteady. I understood, now, that stupid saying about knees going weak. It turned out it wasn’t stupid at all, just an accurate assessment of how it felt to want someone so badly.
He watched me for a long, drawn-out minute and then grinned. “Yeah, someone definitely needs to teach you how to live. Here.” He handed me his phone. “Give me your number.”
I know he saw how clumsy my fingers were as I thumbed my number into his phone. My heart rate ratcheted up again as I was doing it. I felt like I was having some crazy out-of-body experience, like I’d been drugged or something. Or like I was drunk—drunk on sandalwood and stubble and forearms.
“Thanks,” Jacob murmured as he took his phone back. He took a step toward me, and for one brief, insane moment I thought he might kiss me right there in the hallway, all of five minutes after we’d met. My eyes dropped to his mouth, and when I finallydragged them back up to his eyes, he looked exceptionally smug. He brought a hand up to his neck and rubbed it absently—months later, he would admit he knew exactly what he was doing to me with that single, casual motion—and my brain went totally blank. I think I may have actually leaned toward him, but suddenly he stepped back.
“Good luck tomorrow,” he said. He strolled away, hands in his pockets, and threw his last words over his shoulder along with a challenging grin. “Try to impress me.”
3
Touch and Go
After a few hours hiding out in the ICU bathroom—one of the staff bathrooms, I learn, after about ten irritated nurses knock impatiently on the door—my face is presentable enough to emerge. I walk past Jacob’s room, but the doors are closed. I can see shadows moving inside, and I hover for a minute, trying to work up the nerve to go in. But then a nurse walks by and frowns at me, and I’m forced to retreat.
The waiting room is still half full. I sink into a seat, only to spot Jacob’s brother, Paul, in the far corner, cell phone pressed to his ear. I search his face desperately for clues. He’s nodding and talking in a quiet voice, then he cracks a thin smile and all the breath rushes out of my lungs. He wouldn’t be smiling if Jacob were dead.
A painful lump is forming in my throat. I get up and flee into the stairwell before Paul can spot me.
Compared to the pristine waiting room, the stairwell is muggy and dingy but mercifully quiet. I dig my phone out of my pocket and my breath hitches at the sight of the background picture. It’s from the top of a hike on the Isle of Harris, in Scotland. Jacob set it as my background photo nearly a year ago.
I squint at the time. Ten forty-seven p.m. I have fifteen missed calls and ten texts. I ignore all of them, except the ones from my teammate, Matty. He’s been with Harper for three years already, with seventeen podiums and six wins under his belt, and he’s something of a media darling (his words, not mine).
F1 teammates aren’t really teammates at all—your teammate is the only one on the grid in the same car as you, so they’re your biggest competition, as well as the only driver your performance can be properly measured against—but Matty’s always been really friendly to me. He kind of reminds me of Jacob a bit. Always joking, always up for anything.
Yo, did you see the F2 crash?his first text reads.Media canceled for the rest of day. I know you’ll be disappointed lol.
Two hours later, there’s another text.Shit, did you hear about Parrot?
My blood runs cold. I open up Google and type in “Parrot formula 2 crash.” The first result that comes up confirms my worst fears. “Formula 2 Driver Ellis Parrot Dies After Tragic Crash,” reads the first headline. I open the article and learn that Parrot died in hospital—thishospital—at eight thirty p.m. The article goes on to state that drivers McDougall and Theriot were released with minor injuries, while Jacob Nichols and Antony Costa remain in critical condition.
I clutch my phone so hard, I think I might break it.
Ellis Parrotdied.
Just like Jacob might die.
The door swings open behind me and a young doctor in green scrubs and a long white coat emerges, phone and coffee in hand.
“Pardon,” she says in French, spotting me on the steps. Then she does a double take. For a moment, I think she’s recognizedme, but instead her face softens and she says gently, “Pardonnez-moi... est-ce que ça va?”
I open my mouth to lie, but instead I blurt out, “Do you know how Jacob Nichols is?”
“Jacob Nichols?” she repeats.
“Room 924,” I say, flushing. “He was in a car accident?”
“Ah.” She nods. “The racing car driver. Oui.” A drop of suspicion creeps into her eyes. “You are—media?”
“No, I—” I shake my head. “He’s just... a friend. I don’t want to disturb his family.”
“We are not supposed to give information, only to family,” she says. The painful lump in my throat grows a little bigger. I swallow it down and force a nod.
“Right. Sorry.”
I wait for her to leave, but instead she gives a little sigh. A moment later, she sits down beside me on the steps.
“It is, how you say, touch and go,” she says quietly. “He has suffered injury to—” She pats her stomach. “Organs inside. La rate. Ah, comment dire en anglais?” She rubs her forehead and then opens up some French search engine on her phone and types into it. “Ah! Ici. Spleen. La rate. And liver. You know?”
