For some reason, I resort to pulling up a YouTube channel that has documentary videos on the history of Formula 1. Unsurprisingly, there are multiple videos featuring Travis. Until now, I’ve avoided watching any, but today without thinking of it, I click on the first one that looks appealing.
The video traces his path from go-kart all the way up to Travis’ heartbreaking race last year in Abu Dhabi. The clips ofTravis with his baby cheeks at ten years old in a racing suit, brings a sheen of wetness over my eyes.
I wonder who our baby will look like.
In an interview, he’s asked what his strategy is for this race.
“Flat out,” he answers with a casual shrug.
The journalist laughs. “That’s it?”
He shrugs. “That’s the only way I know how to win.”
My heart squeezes inside of my chest. The stars in his eyes that he held then have never faded. I see them every time he looks at me. And lately, every time I close my eyes.
By the end of the video, I'm bawling, yet again. To have something you’ve worked for years for, snatched away due to no fault of your own, is a visceral kind of pain. One that not many people could shake off.
Admiration for him wells up inside of me. Maybe this is why he didn’t tell me the full truth. He tried to spare my feelings while also fighting for the dream he’s aimed for most of his life.
Why would he do that?
My attention goes back to the paused screen. There’s a picture of Travis from last season, head down, shoulders slumped as he walks away from his car after having just lost the championship.
A champion without a trophy to show for it.
He’s a fighter because he came back to win while stepping up after finding out he’s going to be a father.
I blink, my vision wobbling as I realize I need to hear his voice. It’s selfish, I know, since his race will start soon. Maybe I can just leave him a message, wishing him luck and letting him know that when he returns from his race, I’m ready to talk.
A tightening in my lower stomach has me pausing. I rise to my feet to ease the Braxton-Hicks contraction and to reach for my phone on the coffee table.
The moment my thumb hovers over Travis’ name, the intercom from the front desk buzzes by the door.
“Yes?” I ask, pressing the button for the reception guy.
“Ms. Scott, you have a delivery. We need you to come down to sign for it.”
“On my way.”
The second the elevator door opens on the lobby floor of my building, my phone rings. I answer at the sight of Travis’ name.
“Travis?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Hello?”
My heart sighs in relief.
Wanting privacy for this conversation, I tell Travis about the delivery that I had to come down to get.
When I approach the front lobby desk, the normal security guard isn’t present. There’s a tall guy dressed in a delivery uniform, standing to the side of the desk.
His face looks familiar, but I can’t place it.
“Alyssia Scott,” he announces.
Another round of Braxton-Hicks forces me to pause on an inhale. I pull the phone from my ear after telling Travis to hang on. I want to give him my undivided attention for this call.
