‘What for? He might have an inkling that we’re together, but there’s?—’
‘We’re not together.’ He’s only half concentrating on me and doesn’t register my head snap back.
Maybe he didn’t mean it. A heat of the moment throwaway comment. ‘Nottogethertogether,’ I clarify, ‘but?—’
‘We’re just shagging, and my sex life hasnothingto do with him. What the fuck’s he doing here anyway? Little prick just loves to stir the pot.’
Just. Shagging.
It’s a strike to my solar plexus.
We went onholidaytogether. I’d never been on holiday with a boy before – it was hella significant to me. Apparently not to him.
To everyone else in the world, a friends-with-benefits thing is sex and then leave – but not to Jack. For months, he’s been unknowingly chipping away at me with his latent boyfriendness, like he can’t help himself. Like he wants a relationship even though his subconscious has a block. He massages my feet, he cooks me breakfast, he tans my back, he shares his deepest secrets, he helps me with my dad. I defended him to mymum.
Is thatjust shaggingto you, Jack?
And if we’re ‘just shagging’, why behave like a jealous boyfriend? Why be so god-damn territorial? How can you ‘punch his lights out’ without being able to tell him why?
I can’t bring myself to voice any of this. It doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to listen anyway, and we can’t discuss our relationship status – or lack of – in public. But is it so inconceivable for Micah to genuinely have an interest in me? I thought I was ‘perfect’. I thought I was ‘unreal’. I know he’s playing mind games, but I’d like Jack to consider the possibility for a nanosecond.
My eyes tingle but I swallow it. Crying won’t do me any favours right now. I mutter something about being tired and wanting to let him cool off so I’ll sleep in my hotel tonight. To my disappointment, he doesn’t put up any semblance of a fight.
Looks like Georgie was right after all. Maybe I’m not the one in danger of breaking this.
Chapter 35
MINNIE
MONZA
I’ve had three days at home between the Dutch and Italian Grand Prix, and space has afforded a little perspective. It’s not Jack’s fault I wasn’t more open about how my feelings have grown. We agreed in the beginning friends-with-benefits is all we’d ever be, and he’s just sticking to his version of it. As much as my heart feels like there’s a hairline fracture in it, at least I know where I stand without having the world’s most awkward conversation, and it’s my decision to continue. I’d rather be with him on an uneven keel than lose what we have completely.
If I watch myself, I can avoid being dragged in too deep. I don’t know if I fully believe that, but it’s what I tell myself when I meditate – which I seem to be doing a lot lately. In the quieter moments, right before I go to sleep, I think… I’m not sure I could leave him even if I wanted to.
He’s clueless about all of this. He didn’t question it when I didn’t sleep at his last Sunday, when I barely texted him all week, when I delayed accepting his invitation to stay with him in Monza.
He was his normal self last night over dinner in his room. The only mention of the Dutch afterparty was a sharedagreement that we were too sloppy and can’t do anything like that again.
His arm’s slung over the indent of my waist as it always is first thing in the morning. He groans as I grab my glasses and leave for the toilet, but makes no move to waken despite his alarm clock bleating something chronic.
I’m in the middle of drying my hands when I hear a chilling‘FUCK’from the bedroom. The hairs on my arms stand to attention.
‘What’s up?’ I call.
‘Minnie?’
Oh god, he used Minnie not Roberts. ‘What’s wrong?’ I say, rushing back into the bedroom.
Jack’s sitting up, hair even more ruffled than his usual bedhead, eyes glued to his phone. He turns it to me and all colour drains from the world. I can make out what it is from metres away. Every step I take, it worsens.
It’s a photo of us kissing at the afterparty. There’s enough side profile to identify us both. My arms are locked around his neck. His hands are spread around my ribs.
I think I’m going to be sick.
‘Georgie sent it to me. She says you need to get a publicist,’ he says gently.
‘Where did she get it?’ My voice is shaking as much as my body.
