“And she loves you,” Marissa added. “Which honestly makes it worse. Love gives fear more material to work with.”
Reese nodded. “She wants this for me. I know she does. I just don’t think she wants it aroundher.”
Delaney pushed her shades up onto her head, finally meeting Reese’s eyes. “Okay, but here’s the thing,” she said. “You’re not asking her to be reckless. You’re asking her to trustyou. And that’s different.”
Cassidy hummed in agreement. “This might take time, Reese. Big transitions don’t come with easy or tidy timelines.”
“And,” Marissa said lightly, though her gaze was sincere, “you’re allowed to want the thing you’ve worked your entire life forandthe woman you love. That’s not greed. That’s being human.”
The tightness in Reese’s chest eased just a fraction. Talking to her friends helped. “I hate that it feels like I’m choosing,” she admitted.
“You’re not,” Delaney said immediately. “You’re moving forward. The people who love you will figure out how to move with you.”
And what if Sloane didn’t, couldn’t? Reese would attack that bridge when she came to it, because the idea of it was almost too much for her brain to handle.Don’t get ahead of yourself.
The sun dipped lower, turning the water gold. Cassidy kicked her floaty lazily, Marissa reached for her drink, and the moment softened again, the weight redistributed among them.
Reese leaned her head back, eyes closed, letting the warmth of the sun wash over her body. She didn’t have answers yet. But for now, she had this. Friends who knew her, who held space without trying to steer the wheel.
She checked her phone and smiled because she had a message from Sloane.
Sloane
I love you. I miss you. I hope you’re having the best time.
She exhaled and held the phone to her chest because Cassidy was right. Things were going to work themselves out.
Sloane discovered, by accident, really, that if she stacked enough work on top of her thoughts, they stayed mercifully quiet.
Her calendar became a study in saturation that week. Morning calls with automotive clients on three continents, afternoons with the academy reviewing data, sitting through Zoom meetings where the dividing lines betweenacceptable riskandcareer-ending disasterwere discussed in clean, unemotional language. She thrived there because numbers behaved. They were easy to understand. Problems always had solutions if you stared at them long enough.
Unlike everything else.
She told herself she was being professional by working so much. Efficient, even. She did not tell herself that she was afraid of silence, of giving herself too much time to think, because that’s when things got dangerous. It was in those spare moments that the same image crept back in: her car splintering, fire blooming where it shouldn’t, the long wait between impact andmovement. She didn’t let herself dwell on the fact that loving a woman who now belonged to Formula 1 felt like standing too close to the edge of something she’d already fallen from once.
So, she worked.
She worked until her eyes burned and her coffee went cold. She worked until Reese’s texts sat unanswered for longer than she meant them to.Busy,she told herself.Just busy. That’s all.
It almost held.
Until the night before travel, when she was scheduled for another race weekend. The academy’s. And, of course, Reese’s.
Her suitcase sat open on the bed, half-packed, the academy credentials tucked neatly into the side pocket. Everything about the trip was routine. Same airports, same security lines, same practiced efficiency. She’d done this dozens of times. Hundreds, maybe.
But this time was different. The stakes were.
Sloane sat on the edge of the mattress and tried to picture it all unfolding: the F1 garage, the speed, the monitors. The way the whole world watched now. The wayshewould have to watch. Her chest tightened, breath turning shallow before she even realized she was bracing.
I can do this,she told herself.
The words didn’t land. So she tried again. And again.
Morning came anyway, and she somehow found her way to the airport, driven by love and determination, hand in hand. She was met with airport noise, rolling bags, stressed-out travelers, and the low hum of what felt like the inevitable. Sloane made it through security on muscle memory alone, heart beating too fast, palms damp. She stood at the gate and watched the waiting plane through the glass.
All she had to do was board. Just get on the plane and fly to Reese.
Her body refused.
