Reese stood there long after, phone still in her hand, the last message she’d sent glowing faintly on the screen.
Eventually, she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor, at the scuff marks in the carpet, at the place where Sloane’s bag should have been. She tried to imagine the weekend unfolding without her, and for the first time since Budapest had come onto the calendar, the city felt impossibly far away.
Reese lay back fully dressed, arms crossed over her chest, and let the ceiling blur.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t break.
She just stayed there, breathing, waiting for the ache to become something she could live with.
Back in Venice Beach, Sloane let her days take on a different shape.
She’d been home a little over three weeks, which was long enough for the salt air to feel normal again. Also long enoughthat she’d missed two race weekends she should have traveled for. Academy obligations she’d handed off. Formula 1 paddocks she’d stayed away from. That was hard.
But she’d been busy.
Therapy came first. Twice a week at the start, then a standing slot she agreed to treat like any other nonnegotiable commitment. Lindsay, her therapist, sat across from her with a legal pad she barely used and a way of listening that made silence feel productive.
“What does your body do,” Lindsay asked one morning, “when you imagine standing in the garage while she’s out there racing?”
Sloane didn’t answer right away. She closed her eyes, checked in. “My chest tightens,” she said finally. “Not panic. More like … bracing.”
“Okay,” Lindsay said. “So, your body’s talking before you are. That’s helpful to know. That’s a starting point.”
They talked about timing and proximity, about how Sloane’s instincts shifted when risk stopped being theoretical. Loving racing had never been a problem because she did love it. It was loving Reese that had changed the math. Together, they made plans for how she could handle any difficult moments ahead: regular check-ins even when Sloane was on the road, a clear agreement that she wouldn’t disappear and then pretend she was fine. Falling off the therapy wagon wasn’t an option anymore.
“Not attending a race,” Lindsay said later, “doesn’t mean you’re retreating. It means you’re listening. We can take this case by case.”
Sloane leaned in. “Don’t you mean race by race?”
Lindsay smiled. “Actually, I do.”
Some days, Sloane walked out feeling steadier. Other days, wrung out. Lindsay had told her both counted.
Late mornings often found Sloane at The Cat’s Pajamas, the coffee shop tucked a block off the boardwalk, where the windows were always open and the air smelled faintly of salt and espresso. Autumn was behind the counter every time—curly red hair wild, smile immediate, pulling shots with the precision of a scientist and the joy of someone who loved what she did.
“You look better,” Autumn said one morning, sliding a mug across the counter without asking.
Sloane wrapped her hands around the cup. “I feel better,” she admitted. “Which is … new.”
Autumn lifted a brow. “But?”
“But I don’t want to rush it, ya know?” Sloane said.
Autumn nodded slowly. “Nor should you. You just sip your coffee and enjoy all you’re doing to get back to that girl of yours.” She placed a hand on her hip. “I saw the end of her race on Sunday. Ouch.”
Sloane deflated. “I caught the highlight show after the race. Yeah, not her best. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on.” Reese had finished out of the points and had slow starts in both of her last two races. Sloane had thoughts, but she was worried the problem went beyond racing, and that sat uncomfortably on her chest. “Hoping she rallies next weekend.”
“Of course she will,” Autumn said without a beat of hesitation. “She’s a badass hottie, and those always triumph in the end. I should know. I’m married to one.” A pause. “What else?”
Sloane exhaled. “I talked to Veronica. We made a plan. Next time I watch Reese race, she’ll sit with me. Just … be there. And she’ll keep sitting with me until I get the hang of the whole thing again. And I will. I know it.”
Autumn smiled, soft and proud. “You’re making things happen a little at a time.”
Sloane huffed a quiet laugh. “I am. What is it they say about eating an elephant?”
“Oh, sweetie, I have some freshly baked chocolate chip muffins that will taste much better.”
Sloane laughed. “Probably wise.”
