“The season’s getting ready to start in a couple of weeks.”
“This is great news, no?” the man with the woman confirms.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I watch her give an elegant dip of her head. “The season is when we bring in the most amount of donations,” the woman says.
My ears perk up at the word donations and at the way she pronounces ‘the’ as ‘zee.’
She’s French.
“Yes, the FIA is doing great work with these charities in recent years.”
I wonder briefly what the FIA could stand for, but it doesn’t bring up any familiar organizations or charities that I’ve ever worked with in the past. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I hold the question.
The only thing I’m here to do is gather as much information as possible to address my resumé to the right person. And collect empty glasses.
I make a mental note of the conversation still going on next to me while placing half empty champagne flutes onto my tray.
The pair look at one another and then back at me.
“Yes … the Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile,” the woman says to the man, and I translate her French into The International Federation for Automobiles in my head.
I’ve never heard of it.
While I wipe down the table a little, the pair continue to discuss something about this organization and the new season that’s said to be an exciting one.
“Do you think he’ll show up tonight?” The guy’s voice lowers, conspiratorially.
“One should think,” the woman replies. “He has to show his face.”
“Yes,” the man answers with a nod, but adds on, “But after such a devastating loss last season …” His grave voice trails off.
They share a look before halting the conversation.
It’s none of my business whatever this conversation is about. I should’ve clocked out once they begun talking about, what I’ve gathered, is some sort of motorsport.
There’s no job for me to be had in that arena. Even if there is a need for a market researcher. I couldn’t see myself working for an organization that had anything to do with racing.
The thought alone forces a shudder down my spine.
Shaking it off, I notice the man and woman have turned to look across the dimly lit room.
“Come,” she waves him off the balcony, “let’s greet Max and Dennis.”
There’s no time to waste in watching them go. I finish with the table and collect a few more glasses that have been left on the handrail before starting for the main area of the gala. More people have gathered, making it trickier to wind around them and the tables toward the door that leads to kitchen.
As I pass, someone from one of the groups sticks their hand out to place their empty flute on my tray. I slow my steps, giving him time to place it.
“Travis, we’re so glad you could make it.”
Travis.
In the time it takes me to process the two syllables of his name, my heartrate speeds up, my stomach dips, and my body stiffens. A flash from that night flits across my memory. A sudden low buzzing starts in my ears. This happens every time I stupidly allow myself to think about him or that night.
Which I don’t do often.
“Not him,” I say to myself. There have to be millions of Travises in this world. Probably hundreds of thousands in New York City alone. I’m being ridiculous.
But the voice of the woman who’s called his name is newly familiar.
