One of the riders wipes out in front of us, slamming into the inflatable barrier. The race restarts; the fallen rider walks off under his own steam, staff in yellow tabards unruffled. The next heat seems louder. I think wistfully of the earplugs in my pocket but don’t use them. I don’t want to miss a single word she says.
“Remind me how long you are here for?” I ask in a quieter moment. The question has been sitting under my tongue all evening.
“Couple of weeks,” she says. “Then I think I might go to Sicily. It’s been a while, and I’ve got friends there.” She dusts her hands, stands to bin her chip wrapper. “I’m not going to take the job in Cali. You convinced me to follow my gut.”
My heart does something complicated. Relief, worry, something else I can’t name. She’ll still leave. Of course she will. That’s her life. The idea already feels oddly sharp. But she will be happier for the decision she made.
I watch her walk down the steps, hair catching the last of the light, and know with a clarity that steals my breath:
Whatever this is, however long it lasts, I am already done for.
Chapter 4
Jacob
“Wooooo!”
Tippi cheers for the home team like she’s personally won the league. She jumps as she claps, pure joy sparking off her in bright little arcs that land all over me. “Theynailedit. Come on, let’s see if we can meet the riders.”
“Meetthem?” I echo, startled.
She shrugs, easy. “Worst thing they can say is no. Come on.” She catches my wrist and gives it a quick, encouraging squeeze.
My stomach dips. All I can picture is a line of confident, heavily armoured men clocking her and swarming like bees to syrup. Of course they’ll find her as gorgeous and captivating as I do.
Unlike me, they’ll have the nerve to do something about it.
We thread through the dispersing crowd to a steward. It would never have occurred to me to ask for access, and I’m fully prepared for him to shut us down.
He does the opposite.
Within thirty seconds he’s radioed someone, waved us through a barrier, and is now walking us down a concrete tunnel, happily making small talk with Tippi and flicking me the occasional wary glance in case I object. She handles him like a pro: friendly, but entirely unbothered.
It hits me, properly this time: I am in the presence of someone wholivesdeliberately. Not just existing, not just coasting, but constantly nudging life to see what it will give her back. Shewanted me there tonight: she asked. She wants to meet the riders: she asks. Either she’s genuinely unafraid of “no,” or she just doesn’t hear it very often. And, when she does, it doesn’t concern her, because more equally fun opportunities will turn up soon. Either way, she’s squeezing the meaning out of every day in a way I’ve only ever read about.
I wonder again if there’s a version of me who could ever learn to do the same.
The tunnel opens into the riders’ area. Engines still growl here and there; the air smells of oil, hot metal, and exhaust fumes. The men are in various states of armour and undress, laughing, jeering, replaying moments from the track. The steward raises his voice.
“Alright, lads. This is Tippi, and she wanted to say hello.Behave.” The last word is wrapped in humour that makes my teeth itch, like he’s proud of throwing a pretty woman into the lion enclosure.
I’m glad I’m here. If she wants to leave, I can get us out fast.That,at least, I’m good at.
To their credit, they’re more polite than I feared. Tippi moves through them like she was born for it, complimenting their individual runs, asking how the fallen riders are feeling, listening to the answers like they’re all fascinating. Like a journalist, but asking the questions out of personal interest rather than for an article. They flock to her, but not in a way that sets my hackles all the way up. It’s just typical pack behaviour around bright light.
“So, what kind of name is ‘Tippi’?” one of them drawls eventually.
He’s lounging on his bike, giving her a look I suspect he’s practiced in the mirror. The one that says,I’m different from these other guys, pick me.
It puts my back up instinctively.
Tippi only smiles, polite but unimpressed. “An unusual one,” she says sweetly.
His mouth quirks. “You’re not wrong.”
“That’s usually the case.” She glances away from him and back at me. “Jacob, Ryan was just about to show me his scar from the grand prix.” She waves me over and, for the first time, the group seems to properly see me.
The general atmosphere drops a few degrees into basic friendliness, and Ryan adjusts his approach so he’s talking to both of us instead of performing at her, lifting his trouser leg to reveal a jagged pale line along his shin. “Took half the skin off coming off at turn two,” he says cheerfully.
