Jonathan looked tired but not wrecked. He kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the bed, and leaned back against the headboard.
“My dad’s furious,” he said, though his tone was closer to exasperated than afraid. “Thinks the whole thing makes me look unserious. Shep said the same. Image, focus, blah blah blah. They don’t want me to lose momentum. But honestly? It’s not that bad. No one’s threatening to pull the car out from under me.”
I stared at him. His world shook but didn’t crack. Mine felt like it was crumbling.
He reached for my hand, lacing our fingers together. “We’ll get through it,” he said.
I wanted to believe him. I wanted his certainty. But all I could feel was Thea’s voice in my head, sharp as broken glass:keep your dick in your pants.
Jonathan ran a hand through his hair, studying my expression. “You know what the strangest part is? I never actually came out. Not officially. I just got photographed being happy with someone I care about, and suddenly I’m ‘F1’s first openly gay driver.’”
“Is that how you see yourself now?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t hidden who I am since I was a teenager. But I never made an announcement either. My family knows, my close friends know. But now it’s this… label. This historic first that I never asked for.” He looked at me directly. “Do you think that changes anything? For us?”
“Everything’s already changed,” I said quietly. “The question is whether we can handle what comes next.”
Before I could elaborate, Jonathan’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and his expression tightened.
“My father,” he said, answering. “Dad?”
I could hear Michael Hirsch’s voice through the phone, crisp and urgent, though I couldn’t make out the words.
“You’re here already?” Jonathan said. “I thought you weren’t arriving until tomorrow.” A pause. “Where do you want to meet?”
Jonathan caught my eye and held up a finger, asking me to wait.
“Should I bring Wally?” he asked, and I heard the hope in his voice.
The silence that followed felt endless. Then Jonathan’s face fell slightly.
“I understand,” he said. “Give me twenty minutes.”
He hung up and looked at me with an expression that mixed apology with resignation.
“He’s at the Beachhouse Hotel. Wants to discuss ‘damage control’ before the media gets wind that he’s here.” Jonathan stood, reaching for his shoes. “I asked if you should come.”
“I heard you.”
“He thinks it’s better if we talk privately first. Father-son conversation about handling the situation.” Jonathan’s voice carried a note of disappointment that he was trying to hide. “I’m sorry, Waldo. I know this isn’t what we planned.”
“It’s fine,” I said, though it wasn’t. “You need to deal with your family. I need to figure out what’s left of my career.”
Jonathan kissed me before leaving, but it felt tentative, uncertain in a way that our kisses hadn’t been since college.
“I’ll text you when I’m done,” he said.
The door closed behind him, leaving me alone with the weight of everything that had changed in the past twelve hours.
Wednesday Evening, 9:30 PM
The hotel room felt smaller without Jonathan’s presence. I sat on the bed, staring at my phone, scrolling through increasingly brutal headlines and comment sections that made Thea’s advertiser concerns seem optimistic by comparison.
By 10 PM, the silence was unbearable. I needed to talk to someone who knew me before all this, someone who could remind me that my identity wasn’t defined by tabloid headlines or advertiser comfort levels.
Maya. It would be 4 PM in Philadelphia. She’d probably be finishing up her workday at the nonprofit where she’d landed after graduation.
The phone rang three times before she picked up.
