Jonathan turned onto his side, facing me. “I don’t regret this,” he said, more firmly now. “I just need you to understand where my head has to be.”
“I do,” I said. And I meant it. That was the problem.
We dressed in the quiet that follows intimacy, the soft rustle of fabric louder than it should have been.
He kissed my forehead, tender and restrained, his hand lingering at my wrist for a heartbeat before he let go.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” he said quietly.
We both listened for a moment, instinctively checking the silence beyond the walls. The hallway was empty when he opened it, the carpet swallowing the sound of my footsteps.
He didn’t follow me out. He couldn’t.
For a second we stood there facing each other in the narrow frame of the doorway, everything we weren’t saying suspended between us.
“Good night,” he murmured.
“Good night.”
The door closed softly behind me.
By the time I reached my own room and shut myself inside, the quiet rushed in all at once. The space felt larger. Colder.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the hotel settling into sleep.
This wasn’t a secret anymore.
It was a balancing act.
And I wasn’t sure yet who would be the first to lose his footing.
17
IN TRANSIT
Jonathan’s textcame as I was packing in my hotel room:Wheels up in an hour. See you at Silverstone.
An hour later, I was queuing for security at Vienna International Airport with my wheeled carry-on and a boarding pass for the 2:15 PM Austrian Airlines flight to Heathrow. The contrast wasn’t lost on me. While Jonathan was settling into leather seats aboard Meridian’s Gulfstream bound for Cranfield, I was hoping the middle seat next to me would stay empty.
It didn’t. But the passenger who claimed it turned out to be Mason Banning, looking as travel-weary as I felt.
“Small world,” he said, stowing his bag overhead. “Sandra and I are hiring a car. Split it three ways?”
I agreed.
Sandra sat across the aisle, already drafting her Silverstone preview as the Airbus lifted over the Alps.
“The British Grand Prix is always special,” she said. “Homecoming for the British drivers. Hostile territory for everyone else. Where does Hirsch land?”
“He went to school in England,” I said. “Millfield. Probably feels comfortable there.”
Mason leaned back, watching me. “Most people thought he’d skip university and go straight to Formula 3. Surprised everyone when he chose Wharton.”
“Surprised his father most of all,” Sandra murmured.
I scribbled in my notebook like this was just another fact, not another glimpse of a life I’d once been inside.
Mason’s expression sharpened. “Wait. You went to Penn, didn’t you?”
