“Wally Pulaski,” Maya said, warmth and surprise braided together. “I saw the news and thought, well. That’s one way to come out to the entire world.”
Despite everything, I smiled. “Not exactly how I planned it.”
“Few of us plan it.” Her voice softened. “Okay. Skip the headlines. How bad does it feel inside?”
The question cracked something open. “I think I might lose my job before it officially starts,” I said. “And I hate that part of me is more scared of that than of being out.”
There was a beat of silence. “That’s honest,” Maya said. “And it makes sense. Jobs are concrete. Identity’s… bigger. Scarier to name.”
“It still feels like I’m choosing the wrong thing to panic about.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe you’re just noticing what’s at stake. Six months ago you were buried in municipal budget hearings. Now you’re in Europe covering Formula 1 and dating someone you care about. Of course it’s messy. Big lives are messy.”
“It doesn’t feel big,” I said. “It feels fragile.”
“Fragile isn’t the same as wrong.” She paused. “So answer me this. Do you regret being with him?”
I thought of Mykonos. Of sunlight and water and not having to calculate every touch.
“No,” I said quietly.
“Then start there,” Maya said. “Everything else is logistics. Ugly, fixable logistics. But if the center holds, you work outward. Not the other way around.”
We drifted into safer territory after that. Work gossip. A story about her boss and a broken copier. By the time we hung up, the knot in my chest had loosened just enough to breathe again.
After we hung up, I sat in the growing darkness of the hotel room, processing her words. Outside, the Dutch evening was settling over Zandvoort, and somewhere across town, Jonathan was having a conversation with his father about damage control and family reputation and all the complications that came with accidentally becoming a pioneer.
Outside my window, I heard the sea, soft, steady, and somewhere beyond the dunes, the low rumble of freight trucksmoving equipment into the paddock for the Dutch Grand Prix. A gull screeched from a rooftop. Someone down the street was grilling something that smelled faintly of garlic and salt.
I realized Michael Hirsch wasn’t the only father that news mattered to. Don Pulaski would care, too.
I scrolled to Dad in my contacts and hit call.
He picked up on the second ring. “Hey, sport.”
“Hey,” I said, my voice smaller than I meant it to be.
“Where are you now? London?”
“Zandvoort. Little town on the Dutch coast. I can see the beach from my window. Kind of.” I hesitated. “It’s nice. Loud with race people, but nice.”
He hummed softly, like that was enough detail. “I saw the news on one of the racing sites.”
“And?”
I could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “Do I need to fly across the ocean and punch him, or do you love him?”
The laugh that escaped me felt too big for my chest. “I love him.”
“And he treats you right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He does. I thought the secrecy was hard. But now, this idea that everyone knows my personal business? That they’re judging me, or saying obscene things about me. That maybe you’ll lose business because of me.”
Dad was quiet again, but not in a worried way. More like he was choosing his words with care. “You know your mother and I are in your corner, no matter what. With us, you don’t have to be anything but honest. I don’t need headlines. I don’t need normal. I just want you happy, kid. Not the easy kind of happy. The real kind.”
My throat tightened. I turned my face away from the hotel lights, toward the darkening dunes. “I’m trying.”
“I know.” A breath. “And I’m proud of you. Doesn’t matter who he is. I’m proud you let yourself care.”
