We’re at the point in the European slog when I wake up and for a moment, I’m not sure what country we’re in. When I was an engineer and then a strategic advisor it was never this bad, never this intense. Now we’re six races from the end of the season, after this one at Monza, and my brain is exhausted, but we’re so close. Jo is back in second place overall and gradually creeping up towards Harper’s points total.
Finishing second in Zandvoort was an absolute miracle considering the state I found Johannes in that night. He still looked a little fragile the next day, but by the time he was called up to do the first press panel, he’d bounced back like a champ.
I’m not sure exactly what happened, considering the complete lack of detail he gave me, but whoever this ex from the Netherlands is, he really messed him up. Seeing him so broken in that moment, though– fuck, it almost broke me as well. It took all my resolve not to swear on everything I hold sacred that I would never hurt him like that if we could just give whatever it is between us a chance. Except we can’t. We shouldn’t. That might solve his problems, but it doesn’t address mine.
I wish I could have stayed wrapped up on the beach with him all night, but his skin was cold to the touch even after I gave him my jacket– a jacket he’s still yet to return. It was just the two of us on the sand, waves crashing, sky darkening. I’d have liked it to be under better circumstances– but we can’t have everything in this lifetime, it seems.
The perfect guy is being dangled right in front of my face, but RBF stands like a billion-foot tower between us. It’s so tempting to try to slip through the tiny cracks that are showing, but I have to think of my career, my ambitions, my dreams. I won’t throw it all away for a guy again, even if that guy is Johannes Müller.
So I’m back to trying to push Johannes into certain categories in my head. He’s my driver, my running partner, a good friend. Those are the only acceptable boxes for him.
So why can’t I keep the lids on?
It’s Tuesday morning of race week in Monza, and I’m actually trying to make the most of the free time we have this week before the four days of chaos. Johannes and I ran yesterday and he told me he wouldn’t be running this morning as he had a late media event last night, so I decide to have a lie-in. I eat a light breakfast and then set off with my satchel into the centre of Monza. The streets are beautiful, lined with small, independent shops that I dip in and out of.
I spend hours getting lost in the lanes, before settling in a café with a pastry and an iced tea. I open my laptop to edit my conclusion chapter for the fifth time. It’s so close to being done. Then that’ll be it. I won’t be a student anymore. Every time I think about it, I feel sad. I don’t want to be done with education; there’s still so much to learn.
I’m about to let that sad thought take me back to my hotel room when my phone rings. The caller ID flashes up as Cole, so I quickly pick up.
‘Hey, what are you up to today? I’m assuming you’re already out here?’ Cole asks and there’s another hushed voice in the background, which I assume is Ash.
‘Yeah, I’m here. I’m in town. Just grabbed some lunch. What about you?’
‘Me and Ash are trying to round people up for padel. Harper and Johannes are out, but Elijah’s up for it if you want to be our fourth.’ I almost laugh at how many lonely days I’ve spent in foreign cities over the years I’ve been with RBF and now I have people who just randomly want to play padel with me on a Tuesday in Italy. How times have changed.
‘Yeah sure, I’m in. Send me the location and I’ll see you there.’ I’ll need to head back to my room to change first, but I’ve not strayed too far from where I’m staying.
‘Cool. Can you be there in half an hour? I’ll send you the place.’
When I check it out the location, it’s walkable in fifteen minutes from my room, easy-peasy. I head back and change, and am still the first one there when the three of them arrive together a few moments later.
‘What’re you looking at?’ I ask as they walk in, all gathered around Elijah’s phone.
‘Harper and Kian’s official wedding photos. Kian just shared the album with the guests,’ Elijah replies and I see they’re focused on a photo of the whole gang.
Kian and Harper are looking lovingly into each other’s eyes, Elijah and his wife are the other side of Kian, then Cole and his husband, and Ash holding hands with his girlfriend next to them.
Standing on Harper’s left, all alone, is Johannes, and he looks wretched. He’s slapped on the fakest smile I’ve ever seen, and it can’t hide that his eyes are a dull shade of grey and his fists are clenched. He looks angry, hollow. It’s hard to look at. Then I remember how he cried on the plane after Silverstone. The morning after the wedding. What happened that night?
Elijah swipes over to a picture of Harper and Johannes, the groom and his best man. Again, Johannes’s smile fails to reach even the midpoints of his cheeks. I hope he’s not on his own when he looks at these. No one comments on how terrible Johannes looks as they flip through the album.
‘Shall we play?’ Ash asks, and I realise Elijah’s put his phone away already and I’m just standing there, gormlessly staring into space.
We drop our bags in the locker room and head out onto the court where the match turns into a vicious competition, which I shouldn’t be surprised about. I’m paired with Elijah, and it turns out he’s a big old sulker when he loses. But it’s fun to feel free for an hour or so– no racing, no PhD thesis, just my body feeling loose and excited to be here, with this group.
I’m sad when our time on the court comes to an end and we traipse back into the locker room and hit the showers.
I’m first out into the foyer, but I don’t want to be rude and run off without even saying goodbye so I study the pictures on the walls and a noticeboard full of fliers. My attention is caught by a poster advertising a country-music festival in Milan tomorrow evening.
Now look, I don’t believe in fate. But this has to be a sign, surely? Jo would love it, and so would I. I want to take him out and make him feel special. I tell myself it can only help his state of mind for the racing. Like that’s why I’m doing it.
I google the festival and punch the air when I find there are still tickets available for it. I swiftly add two to my basket, but before I check out, I realise I should ask if Johannes is free first.
I craft a text that’s casual but enthusiastic and explains why I think it would be good for him to go, but everything I compose sounds ridiculous– too formal, too jokey, too lame, too desperate. By the time I’m climbing in the car with the other guys for a lift back to my place, I still haven’t sent the text. I’m probably running out of time to even ask, never mind buy tickets. He’s probably busy anyway.
‘You okay?’ Cole asks while Ash and Elijah are distracted, squabbling over something in the back of the car.
‘Yeah, just, I don’t know, I’m very in my own head. This year, this job, it’s not been what I expected.’
