Okay, she wrote. I’m here. TV on; sketchbook out; chewing my nails as we planned. Bring Julie home in one piece, James. I’d like another chance to kiss her rider.
A beat, then, Planning on it, he replied. On both counts.
Heat bloomed low in her belly; her gaze unfocused for a second as she remembered the angle of his mouth, the way he had tasted, the quiet, stunned “wow” she had breathlessly offered when they finally broke apart.
She flipped to a new page without even thinking, and her pencil started tracing lines: the curve of his jaw; the slope of his nose; the little dent in his left eyebrow where some old scar had broken the skin. It felt like a prayer in graphite.
There was a knock at a neighboring door; someone laughing loudly in the hallway; a child’s voice squealing about race bikes. Life went on around her; hotel noises, the clatter of people who had no idea they had come within inches of watching a disaster later that day.
She paused, listening to it all, and then went back to her drawing.
Her phone buzzed again, shorter this time.
They’re impounding Marcus’s bike, Hank wrote. There’ll be hearings and sponsors and a lot of yelling somewhere with air conditioning, but from a tech standpoint, they’re off the table for now.
So you’re safer? he sent.
We’re all safer, he answered. You, me, every rider out there. That’s on you as much as anyone.
Tears pushed at the back of her eyes again. She blinked them away; she didn't need them spilling onto the paper.
All I did was watch, she wrote.
Sometimes watching is the part that saves people, he replied.
She set the phone on her knee and stared at those words until they went a little blurry.
Outside, a distant announcer’s voice floated up through the glass when she muted the TV for a moment, amplified by speakers on the boardwalk. Inside, the air conditioner hummed; the curtains shifted a fraction in the barely-there draft.
She took a deep breath.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “I can do this.”
She texted, When does qualifying start now?
In about forty minutes, he answered. I need to put the phone away for a bit and dial in. I’ll text you again after. You still good?
I’m good, she wrote. Nervous, but good. Go do your thing, Hank. Break physics, but in a legal way.
A little checkered-flag emoji popped up beside his next words.
Yes, ma’am, he sent. Keep a light on for me.
She felt that line everywhere.
Always, she wrote.
She watched the typing indicator blink, disappear, and reappear.
One more, he sent. If the cameras catch my interview after, just know I’m actually talking to you.
She bit back another rush of tears.
Then say something nice, she wrote. I’ll be critiquing your script.
Pressure’s on, he replied.
The typing dots vanished for good this time.
