“This is going to be complicated,” I said, tracing patterns on his chest.
“Probably,” Jonathan agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “But we’re both adults. We can handle complicated.”
“Can we? You’re about to spend the next months traveling the world, fighting for championships. I’m going to be following you around, writing about your every move. There’s going to be scrutiny, questions about objectivity, people who’ll assume I’m writing puff pieces because we’re involved.”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Going to write puff pieces because we’re involved?”
I lifted my head to look at him. “If you drive badly, I’ll write that you drove badly. If you make mistakes, I’ll analyze them. If you win races, I’ll explain why you deserved to win them.”
“Good. That’s all I ask.”
“Is it really that simple for you?”
Jonathan was quiet for a moment, his fingers combing through my hair. “Waldo, I’ve spent ten years proving myself to people who thought I was just a rich kid playing with daddy’s money. My racing speaks for itself now. Your writing will speakfor itself too. People who want to find problems will find them regardless of what we do. I’d rather deal with that than spend another decade wondering what might have been.”
I settled back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, we’ll be complicated together. But I want to set some ground rules.”
“Such as?”
“No inside information. I don’t want to know about team strategy, driver politics, anything that would give me an unfair advantage over other journalists.”
“Agreed.”
“No preferential access. I interview you when everyone else does, not before.”
“That might be tricky, given that we’re sharing a bed.”
“We’ll figure it out. What else… no public displays of affection in the paddock. I don’t need to give people more ammunition than they’ll already have.”
“Can I still look at you like I want to take you and do wonderful things to you?”
I laughed despite myself. “You can look. Just be subtle about it.”
“I’m always subtle.”
“Jonathan, you once ordered fifteen pizzas for a student group without asking anyone first.”
“That was different. That was enthusiasm.”
We talked until nearly 2 AM, setting boundaries and making plans and occasionally getting distracted by the fact that we were naked in bed together for the first time in ten years. When Jonathan finally fell asleep, his arm around my waist and his breathing deep and even, I lay awake for a while longer.
This was insane. Professionally risky, personally complicated, and the kind of decision my practical twenty-one-year-old self would have talked me out of in about thirty seconds.
But watching Jonathan sleep, his face peaceful, younger in the dim light from the window, I realized I didn’t care about practical anymore. I’d spent ten years being practical, being responsible, making safe choices.
I didn’t move away.
I didn’t pull back.
I stayed.
