When the sky outside my window started to lighten, he sat up slowly. The movement felt deliberate, like he was testing whether the world would break if he let go of me.
“I should go,” he said.
I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice.
He dressed in silence, turning his sweatshirt right side out with slow, deliberate movements before pulling it over his head. I watched from the futon, memorizing the ordinary details: the way he ran a hand through his hair, the crease between his eyebrows when he was trying not to cry again.
At the door he hesitated. For a wild moment I thought he might say something that would pull us back from the edge.
Instead he stepped forward and kissed me, gentle and familiar. It felt exactly like every other goodbye we’d shared, and that was what broke me.
“Take care of yourself,” he said.
“You too.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I stayed where I was until the sound of his footsteps faded from the hallway. Then I curled in on myself and sobbed into the cushions until there was nothing left in me but exhaustion.
I told myself it was the right choice. Most days, I even believed it.
But sometimes, late at night in my empty apartment, I wondered what would have happened if we’d been brave enough to try.
6
FINE PRINT
For a momentI was still in that room in Philadelphia, years before, the weight of it pressing against my ribs. Then Jonathan’s hand settled on my shoulder, and the memory released me like surf receding from shore.
We made our excuses and left the party, stepping out into the warm Mediterranean evening. Monaco at night was magical. Lights twinkled on the hillsides, water lapped against yacht hulls in the harbor, and we heard a distant hum of conversation from the dozens of restaurants and bars that had spilled their patrons onto sidewalks and terraces.
We walked slowly, no particular destination in mind, the conversation flowing easier now that we were away from the professional obligations and social expectations of the party.
“So,” Jonathan said as we paused at a railing overlooking the harbor. “Ten years. How have they been?”
“Good. Mostly good.” I thought about how to summarize a decade. “I stayed at theTimesfor five years, then got lucky and snagged a desk at theInquirer. Better pay, more interesting assignments. I’ve covered some motorsport, but mostly it’s been municipal politics and local business coverage.”
“Fulfilling?”
“Sometimes. There’s satisfaction in holding people accountable, in telling stories that matter to ordinary people.” I glanced at him. “Probably not as exciting as your decade, though.”
“Different kind of exciting,” Jonathan said. “You remember how I took that Berlin job? My father lined up this perfect career path, two years in international business, then gradually taking over more responsibility in the company.”
Jonathan’s smile was rueful. “After six months I knew I couldn’t continue. I had to convince him that racing could be a legitimate investment, not just an expensive hobby.”
“How do you convince a businessman to bankroll Formula 1?”
“You present it like a business case. My father bought my first Formula 3 seat, about two hundred thousand for the season. The deal was that I had to prove I could attract outside sponsors within two years, or the funding stopped.”
Jonathan leaned against the railing, looking out over the water. “Racing isn’t like American sports. There’s no draft, no safety net. You don’t get picked. You buy your way in, or someone buys it for you.”
He glanced at me. “Family money or sponsors get you started. If you’re fast enough, you attract more backing. If you’re not, you disappear. That’s the whole system.”
“So you were always racing the clock,” I said. “Not just the other drivers.”
“Exactly.” His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Every season came with conditions. Prove it again. Be worth it again.”
I nodded slowly. “And Formula 1?”
