When was the last time we were actually properly in that relationship?
Our last full day together was a year ago. A YEAR. A whole fucking year. I only remember because I insisted he take me back to his hometown. It was all very hush-hush, but I just wanted to see where my boyfriend of two years grew up– we were already in the UK for Silverstone, so it wasn’t that far to go.
At the time, I convinced myself that we had a great day, that it was an important milestone in our relationship, but I don’t actually have any good memories from that day. I remember the sunglasses and caps and the driver partition screens. I remember not being able to go to the village pub together because people would recognise him. I remember holding my breath as he snuck me up the stairs at his dad and step-mum’s house– and then having to hold it again the next morning as we tiptoed out, because of course, no one could know that I had stayed the night. I remember telling myself that the sick feeling in my stomach was adrenaline, anticipation, adoration…
Have we even spent a full night together since then? When was the last time we even had sex? Proper sex, not a quick hand job or blow job in a stolen moment.
Looking back at your relationship, even when it’s over, should not be this gut-wrenchingly depressing. I actually feel less alone right now than I did for the last year because I’m not longing anymore. I’m not waiting for him. Pining. Yearning. It’s over.
And all I’m left to feel is embarrassed that I put up with it for so long.
I sleep until grit forms in the corners of both my eyes. I wake to a light tap on my bedroom door, and a bowl of soup accompanied by a plate of toasted bread on a tray left just outside. Nils shoots me a thumbs-up from the other end of the villa. He’s dressed in dark, baggy jeans and a stupid vest that’s a little too cropped, indicating he’s heading out. I realise it’s already dark and I’ve slept all day.
Now, I know Nils didn’t make this soup– thankfully we have a nutritionist and chef who takes care of us in our European villas– but it’s the thought that counts. He went to the trouble of asking for this dish to be made for me, because I’msick.I wave pathetically at him as he leaves the villa for whatever he has planned this evening.
I open the sliding doors that lead from my room out onto our patio and while it’s not exactly warm out there right now, I could do with the fresh air. So I set the tray down on the bistro-style table for two and collapse into one of the chairs, pulling the strings of my RBF hoodie in close around my head.
The place we’re staying is fairly removed from Budapest, where I imagine Nils is heading tonight. There’s green land as far as the eye can see. It’s peaceful and so needed.
All I want is for my brain to switch off in the dark silence and be quiet. I want a goddamn break from all the anger and fury I’m currently feeling both towards Jackson and his stupid team and well… myself. For letting this happen and having no one to blame but me.
I haven’t won a race since Bahrain, eight races ago. I haven’t been on the podium in three. I was almost out of the points last weekend. And for what?
For what? I almost want to scream it into the darkness. I’ve gained nothing except the deepest pit of sadness and anger in my stomach and a side dish of low self-esteem.
If I can’t keep my head, I don’t deserve to win. But did I deserve this? Did I really deserve this? So what if I was on my knees sniffing for scraps being tossed at me like I was a dog in the street. Did I deserve it then? No, and yet…
In the end, he chose his team, his job, his new life. And the fucked-up thing is that he told me right from the start that’s what he would do.
That’s what hurts the most.I’mthe one who convinced myself that he would love me enough to choose me anyway. I took his casual crumbs when I should have got up off my knees– literally– and walked away at anything less than a three-course meal on fucking gold-plated dishes. And that’s on me.
Thankfully, the soup scalds my tongue, momentarily refocusing all of the pain in my body. At least it’s better than the heartbreak.
I sit for an hour, maybe two– I’m not sure without my phone out here– polish off the whole bowl of soup and the bread and then collapse back into bed.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and switch it on.
There’s a whole barrage of texts. From Harper, checking in multiple times. From Elijah, too. From my agent confirming he’s cancelled all of today, but that I have no choice about my commitments tomorrow as it’s media day.
There’s even one from Caleb.
Hey, heard from Nils that you aren’t well. I told him about my mom’s soup recipe. She used to make it when we were sick as kids. Said he’d give it to your guys’ chef! Feel better.
That’s unexpected, I think.
But then, he wasn’t what I expected either. After winter break, Gary announced that due to health problems he was retiring to be with his family. I was shocked to then be paired with someone almost half his age. Someone that looked like a ginger Clark Kent. Somone seemingly so smart and so in tune with my car.
And now this. I cringe when I think about him seeing me cry on the plane. He clearly has a big heart.
I reply to Harper and Elijah that I’m okay but not coming out tonight, and they respond with a picture of them in a bar, Nils nestled between them like their child. I’m grateful they’re looking after him when it should be my job.
I think about what to reply to Caleb. A simple thank-you would probably suffice. I could let him know how good the soup was, but somehow that doesn’t feel like enough.
I decide to take another shower while I think about it some more. I shuck my sweat shorts and hoodie and try to let the hot water carry my heartache away as it curls around the drain. I put on a fresh T-shirt and shorts and climb back into bed.
The sheets are cold after leaving the patio door open for too long and I sink back into them, letting the duvet envelop me as I settle down.
Thank you. The soup was really good, very needed.
