Chuckling, I make my way out of the garage, stopping a couple of times to chat with people on the team. There are a few I’ve become friendly with, like one of the mechanics, Samuel, and the social media manager, Marcie, but there aren’t any I know well enough to call friends.
It’s kind of strange, really. Before my crash last year in Formula 2—the one that left two of my fellow drivers dead and put me in the hospital for weeks—I had tons of friends. Or at least, I had tons of people I would’ve called friends. But after everything in my life fell apart and then slowly came back together again, I was left with a much smaller circle of people.
More of a triangle, really. My high school girlfriend, Kelsie, my old racing friend, Nate, and Travis.
I mean, there are other people in my life, of course, like Matty and Travis’s other best friend, Heather, and her boyfriend, Hunter. And there’s Sofia and Tom Kellen, and all the people I work with back at the Crosswire factory. And it’s not like all my old friends totally vanished. They still message me occasionally, and comment on stuff I post on Instagram. But I’ve found myself holding them to a new standard of friendship, one that basically boils down to a single question: do I trust them enough to tell them about Travis?
For most of them, unfortunately, the answer is no. It’s possible I’m being too harsh on some of them, but when none of your friends know you’re bisexual, they’ll say things in front of you that they might have held back otherwise. And I really don’t need anyone in my life who’d throw a fit if they found out I was bi, or worse, only pretend to be okay with it because they don’t want to cut ties with someone who might be an F1 driver someday. I’m happy with the friends that I have, even if there are notably less of them.
Still, it feels sort of weird sometimes. When Samuel thumps my shoulder and tells me I should come to the party he’s throwing in his hotel room, I think, I used to be the one that threw those parties. I used to be the one inviting everyone to come.
I smile apologetically and tell him I’m too exhausted, then I grab my backpack and head to the hotel. Travis is booked at The Ritz-Carlton, which is so close to the track that I can walk there in under ten minutes. The city streets are full of F1 fans, and every time I pass someone wearing Travis’s number, it makes me smile. I’ve seen a bunch of fan-made shirts playing around with his last name, saying things like “KEEPING SLOW CARS BEHIND” with a picture of Travis leading a string of cars, or “KEEPING THE IDIOTS IN CHECK” with a picture of Travis passing Cole Milton. My favorite is the one that says “KEEPING THE TROPHY AGAIN THIS YEAR” with a picture of Travis holding the championship trophy last year.
I wasn’t there with him when it happened. It was after my crash, after I broke up with him like the world’s biggest moron. But if he wins this year, I’m going to be there.
No, not “if.” When.
His team has put him up in a massive suite on the thirtieth floor of the hotel, with sleek wooden furniture, soft lighting, and huge windows that frame the iconic Marina Bay Sands’ towers. I drop my backpack on the floor and sink into the nearest chair, and for several minutes I just sit there, staring out at the city.
It’s really, really beautiful. And I’m really, really exhausted.
Now that I’m away from the noise and bustle of track, it’s hitting me in full force. My skin feels gritty and vile, my mouth is paper-dry, and my bad hip, the one I broke in the crash, is throbbing angrily from the long flight.
The bathroom has a massive bathtub, which might help ease the pain, but I’m too impatient to wait for it to fill. I strip out of my nasty clothes and step into the shower instead, letting out a frankly embarrassing sound when the hot spray hits the back of my neck. I wash every inch of my skin with the hotel’s fancy soap, then I wash my hair twice, for good measure. When I step out of the shower, I feel almost human again, and the sharp throb in my hip has diminished to a dull ache.
I brush my teeth, chug a glass of water, and steal a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from Travis’s suitcase in the bedroom. Then I retrieve my backpack from the other room and dump it onto the bed. If I lie down, there’s no chance I’m staying awake until Travis gets back, so I curl up cross-legged instead, with my back against the headboard.
I mess around on my computer for a few minutes—Googling “is Quin McCarthy gay,” because I’m an extremely pathetic loser—but the bright screen makes my eyes hurt, so I pull out Travis’s Christmas present instead.
It’s only the second week of September, so I’ve got ages to finish it, but I want to make sure it’s really good. It’s a collection of photos and memorabilia from our relationship, arranged in a sort of artsy, collage-y way.
Oh, who am I kidding? It’s a fucking scrapbook.
I blame Kelsie, who made me binge-watch Parks and Rec with her over the summer. The main character, Leslie Knope, went on about scrapbooks every other episode, and it infected my brain, like a virus. I had a bunch of stuff I’d been holding on to, like ticket stubs from museums Travis and I went to together and pictures of us I’d printed out, so it just made sense to put them all in a binder. Then Kelsie saw my first attempt and said it looked basic, so I had to buy a bunch of fancy pens and stickers just to shut her up.
I’m working on a few pages about our summer holidays now. Since Travis and I are still keeping our relationship private, there are basically only two ways we can vacation together: extremely expensive, luxury places where you get a whole island to yourself and all the staff sign NDAs, or extremely random, middle-of-nowhere spots where no one in their right mind would expect to see an F1 champion.
We did both this summer. First, we spent a week in the Maldives—I’ve already got that section of the scrapbook done, full of photos of white-sand beaches and Travis and I swimming in the ocean—then we spent two weeks doing a cross-Canada road trip. We rented a hilariously ugly minivan that Travis stuck a ‘Baby on Board’ sticker on—“The ultimate camouflage,” he called it—and bypassed the more popular tourist spots in favor of places like St John’s, Newfoundland, where we spent mornings sipping coffee and watching massive ships go in and out of the harbor, and Whitehorse, Yukon, where I spent two days nearly freezing to death, and Waldon, PEI, where we visited a random barrel museum and a surprisingly cool classic car shop.
I’m working on the Waldon page now. Travis took a great picture of an old Porsche 356 they had at the car shop, and I’ve got a picture with him and the couple that own the place. We chatted with the woman, Emily, for a while, and when she found out Travis was an F1 driver, she beamed and said, “Play along with me, will you?” then hollered at her boyfriend, “John, look! It’s your favorite NASCAR driver!”
The guy looked absolutely mortified, and the three of us had a good laugh.
I glue the picture down carefully, then I draw an arrow pointing to Travis’s head and write “My favorite NASCAR driver” in glittery red pen.
I am seriously such a loser.
I finish the page and make a start on another, but by midnight, I can’t sit up any longer. My hip is throbbing again, and my eyelids are so heavy that every blink has become a struggle. I put the scrapbook back in my bag and curl up under the sheets. I’m not actually going to sleep. I’m just going to close my eyes for a few minutes.
I’m deep in a dream when the bed dips, and Travis slides in beside me. “Hey, you,” he says quietly.
“M’awake,” I mumble.
He kisses the back of my neck. “I can see that.”
“Time s’it?”
“One a.m.”
