‘I know, but I was in a horny haze and then my brain actually kicked in and remembered that the team would probably fire me for fucking their star driver.’ Then what would I do? I’d have to crawl home to Tennessee with my tail between my legs to live in my childhood bedroom amongst the boxes of Christmas decorations and my mom’s craft projects. I can’t let that happen. Not even for what I’m sure would be the best night of my life.
He opens his mouth to speak, and then he must realise that I’m right because he quickly pushes himself up off the bed, grabbing his boxers from where he discarded them not ten minutes ago. Shit! I don’t want this to be awkward between us. Not when we’ve just started to find magic again on track.
Wordlessly he grabs the remainder of his clothes– he doesn’t even bother to put them back on, just exits the room without looking back. The door clicks behind him and I start to drown in the heaviest silence imaginable.
I huddle under the duvet for comfort, but I’m wrapped in the sweet and spicy scent of Johannes Müller. It fills my senses and teases me with all that could have been.
I don’t sleep a wink.
* * *
The silence continues at quarter to five the next morning as we move awkwardly around the kitchen, avoiding physical contact at all costs. I’ve become used to there being a slow country song serenading the cooking show Johannes usually puts on for breakfast, so the bitter quiet is deafening.
I can’t think of the right words to say, and I hate how weird it already feels between us. What will it be like once we get back on the track? When I’m talking in his ear? When I need the feedback he gives in order to help him and the car perform at their best? Will he retreat into stony silence again?
My stupid big mouth went and ruined what could have been an incredible night with a god-like man who seemed to want me too. How many times in my life will that happen? Once is already more than I deserve.
And now we’re stuck together.
My chest aches as I glide my suitcase towards the front door. Seven days ago, I was anxious about accepting his invitation to stay here and now I wish I could go back and relive it– again and again and again.
Johannes nurses a travel cup of coffee, leaning against the very same counter he leant against last night while we made pasta, while his finger rubbed lazy circles on my skin and I felt my whole body come alive. I wish I could go back and?—
What? Choose differently? Have one night together and then get fired from my dream job and blacklisted in the industry? No, of course not. But this is torture.
I avert my eyes from his masterpiece on the wall as I gather a notebook I left in there earlier in the week, poking it into my backpack before sweeping the penthouse one more time to make sure I have everything. I don’t need to be leaving excuses to come back.
‘Car’s here,’ I say as the notification pings on my phone. I allow myself one last glance around the kitchen. I want to catalogue all the memories we’ve created in here so I can relive them in my mind when I need something to get me through what lies ahead. I reach for the handle of the front door, still unwilling to leave behind what we had here.
‘Hey, wait a second,’ Johannes finally says, breaking his silence.
My heart leaps. He feels it, too, this sadness. I know he does. I turn, ready for him to say whatever it is he wants to get off his chest– an apology maybe? Not that he owes me one. Maybe he wants to forget anything ever happened. He probably already has. I have no doubt I’m making way more of this than he is.
My fears are confirmed when he abandons his suitcase next to the door and disappears towards his bedroom, returning a few seconds later with his charging cable, dangling it in the air between us to indicate his relief that he hadn’t forgotten it.
Well, I guess that’s what passes for closure around here.
We sit as far apart as is possible in the back of the car to the airport and then he plops himself down next to Nils at one end of the plane and I force myself into the seat next to Ian at the front, who eyes me, like he’s not sure what I’m doing sitting here when the last few flights I’ve sat with Johannes. But he doesn’t question it, for which I’m thankful.
Ian’s not feeling chatty at all. He puts earbuds in then opens out a newspaper across his lap. I’m glad. I don’t think I have it in me to pretend I’m fine, anyway. I put my noise-cancelling headphones on and press the play button. I don’t care what I listen to, as long as I can blot out the way my heart leapt when I thought Johannes was going to say something this morning– and then dropped when I realised he’s probably given me no more thought than the cable he nearly forgot.
A song starts playing and I feel my stomach drop all over again when the country-mix playlist Johannes and I made together the other night starts shuffling. It has a good blend of the classics he likes as well as the newer, indie country I enjoy. This is not going to help me forget his angry words last night. Does he think I’m just a cock-tease? That’s what he seemed to imply. That I was just playing games, when that’s not it at all. He must know that if there’s a problem between us, thenI’mthe one who’ll get fired, not him.
Lainey Wilson’s melancholy voice suits my dark mood all too well as I pull out my laptop to get some work done. Spa is one of my favourite racetracks and I know it like the back of my hand, but now there’s an added complication and it wouldn’t hurt to be extra prepared. Since there will be no getting away from Johannes no matter what I do, I decide to dive in headfirst and watch the footage of his last couple of races here. Last year he won and the year before he finished third. Both, podium finishes, but I want to see the difference in the two drives again.
With the ghost-car footage system we now use, it’s easy to see where mistakes are made, and the second I get started I spot an issue. The first corner of Spa is one of the tightest hairpins and immediately I can see how much better Johannes was at taking it last year versus the year before.
But there’s another factor: weather. Last year it was slightly overcast and a little humid; the year before, torrential rain. There’s a poor decision, in my opinion, about tyre strategy, which works against Johannes when the rain clears up about two thirds of the way through the race. He started on pole that day, but the tyre mistake is part of the reason he ends up in third, overall.
We all make mistakes and human error is, well, human, but not to learn from those mistakes is when that becomes a problem. Our weather experts obsessively track the forecasts, but I’ll raise this point in our meeting tomorrow. It’s my job to think about all these things so he can focus on the drive. It’s my job to give him the best possible chance at winning.
I spend most of the flight studying the footage, making note of things we need to look out for and ignoring messages from my mom about coming home during summer break.
I should go home. I really should. But Mom’s still harping on about that doctor she wants to set me up with. I swear she’ll suddenly discover an urgent medical condition the day I land in Tennessee and make me accompany her to an appointment she’s been able to make at short notice. I’m not exaggerating– she’s done this before. I love my family so much, but I wish they would let me be sometimes. I live a very different life to any of them– a good life, an exciting life, the life I’ve chosen– but in their eyes none of this matters unless I’m married with a pack of kids and a house with a yard where I barbecue on Sundays and watch football with my brothers.
There’s nothing wrong with that, and none of them mean to make me feel like I’m a loser for not having it, but they don’t care about F1 the way I do. They don’t understand that it’s more than just a job to me. It’s everything. And I won’t puteverythingat risk just so another fucking Brad, or Chad, or Jason can rip out my heart and leave me withnothing.
I close my laptop and rest my notebook on top of it as a particularly sad song comes on the mix. This is not helping, but I don’t skip it. I don’t want to forget our week together, even if it didn’t have a happy ending. Brad can go fuck himself. I’m only going to feel sad about Johannes now. The cabin crew announces we’re about to descend and I pack away my laptop and notebook, ready to disembark.
