I don’t add that it must be really hard for the people that loved them to see me racing tonight. But I know that it is. Travis texted a lot with Antony’s mom, Mrs. Costa, yesterday. She’s become something of a surrogate parent for him over the past year, and she told him to tell me that she wished me luck tonight, and that she’d be cheering for both of us. But I doubt that she’ll watch the race. When Travis invited her to a race earlier this season, she told him she couldn’t stand to watch him race live. She watches the race highlights, and sends him texts praising his best overtakes, but if she tries to watch live, she spends the whole time sick to her stomach, waiting for the worst to happen.
“Thank you, Jacob,” the interviewer says. “And good luck on the race.”
“That was really good,” Marcie says, as we walk back through the paddock.
“Thanks.”
“Although you’ll owe the team a few grand for saying ‘shitty’ in an interview.”
“Fuck,” I say. “I forgot.”
“I’m kidding.” She smiles. “Well, mostly kidding. Please try not to say ‘fuck’ on anything live.”
I grin. “I’ll do my best. Hey, do I have to be anywhere right now, or can I disappear for a couple of minutes?”
“Sofia and Cory wanted to talk to you,” Marcie says. “But I can ask them to wait, if it’s something important?”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine.”
I don’t think Crosswire would count “I need to see my boyfriend” as something important, especially not compared to a meeting with Sofia and Cory. I don’t know what I’d say to Travis, anyway, or how to put this weird feeling inside of me into words.
The remaining hour before the race dwindles by alarmingly quickly. I meet with Sofia and Cory, who talk about car settings and pit strategies until my head starts to spin, then I say a quick hello to Anne, Ben, Trevor and Jonathan. Anne kisses my cheek and tells me she’ll be proud of me wherever I finish, and Trevor tells me if I don’t win the race that the offer to stay with him and Jonathan in Italy will be rescinded.
“Give me strength,” Ben groans, rubbing his fingers against his forehead. He’s wearing a Crosswire t-shirt, but he’s crossed out Clayton’s number and written mine on, instead. It reminds me of Travis’s alteration to my race shoes, and I look down at the smudged Sharpie for comfort.
“Seriously, though, good luck,” Trevor says. “I’ll be cheering for you, even though Travis is hotter.”
Behind us, Samuel splutters out a laugh.
“Sorry,” he says, chuckling. “It’s time to get in the car, second-hottest driver.”
“Third hottest,” Trevor corrects. “Second is that Cole Milton guy.”
“I’ll see you guys after,” I say, chuckling at the horrified look on Samuel’s face.
I’m still smiling as I drive my car to the grid, but as I see Travis pulling into the grid spot beside me, my nerves rise up again. He gives me a thumbs up as we climb out of our cars, but he’s accosted by a TV camera before I can get to him. As my stomach twists unpleasantly, I duck away to find the nearest bathroom.
I stare at myself in the mirror as I wash my hands, my eyes lingering on the tiny white scar on my neck. It’s so small it’s almost invisible, but I know that it’s there. Sometimes, when I’m distracted, I’ll catch myself rubbing at it. It’s the spot where the central line was inserted after my accident, the big IV they dripped medicine through to keep me from dying.
They took it out the same day they took the breathing tube out. The day before I dumped Travis and broke his heart for no damn reason.
Fuck. Fuck.
My hands shake as I turn off the tap.
The moment I reappear on track, I’m ushered to the front of the grid by a smiling FIA worker. The national anthem is starting soon. Mahoney makes pleasant small talk with me while we wait for it to start, and I try to answer him, but most of my attention is on Travis, chatting with Matty at the other end of the line of drivers. He notices me watching and shoots me a little smile. I try to smile back, reassuringly.
Cameras swoop around as we listen to the anthem, slowing to zoom in on different drivers’ faces. They did the same thing before the F1 race last year in France, when they held a moment of silence for Ellis Parrot, the first driver to die after our crash. The camera lingered on Travis’s face, his pale skin, his closed-off expression. No one knew he was holding on by a thread, nearly paralyzed from the fear of losing me.
And then I woke up and dumped him, and told him our relationship had never been serious. And then I left him alone for months and months, and changed my number so he couldn’t reach me.
And then I showed up at pre-season testing in Barcelona and told him I missed him, and he took me back without any hesitation. Not even a moment of it, not even a second. I just told him that I wanted him back, and he said yes and kissed me, as easy as that.
I think that I’m going to throw up.
“Jacob.” Travis’s voice finds me on my way back to my car. It’s his firm, don’t-fuck-with-me tone, and as he speaks, his hand closes on my bicep. “Come with me.”
“The race is about to start?—”
