She set his cup down and took the chair across from him. No preamble this time. “It’s not good love. As I said, the treatments are done. Chemo, radiation—they’ve thrown everything at it. Six months, maybe twelve. Maybe less. My body’s tired, love. It’s just… tired.”
The words landed quieter this time, less like a gale and more like a slow, inevitable tide. He stared at the steam rising from his tea, throat tight.
“I should’ve come sooner,” he said.
“You were racing,” she replied gently. “Winning. Making me proud. That’s where you were supposed to be.” She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. “But I’m glad you’re here now.”
They didn’t speak for a while after that. Just sat, tea cooling between them, the house settling around their silence.
The days moved slowly. Mornings started with walks along the river—her scarf fluttering, him matching her careful pace. The ground was firm underfoot, packed by the winter chill, and the air carried a salty bite that cleared his head, if only for a moment. Nan would point out seashells or comment on thebirds wheeling overhead, her voice steady but laced with that quiet acceptance he’d come to recognize.
One morning, as they paused to watch the waves crash, she turned to him. “Remember when you were little? You’d run ahead, kicking up sand, yelling about buried treasure.” She smiled faintly. “You were always so full of energy. Still are, in your own way.”
He nodded, arm linked with hers. “I remember. You’d pretend to chase me, but you always let me win.”
She chuckled softly. “Had to. You were always so competitive.”
Afternoons were for the garden. Nan directed from her chair in the sun-dappled shade, bundled in a blanket against the cool breeze, while he pruned and weeded. The soil was damp and rich, clinging to his hands as he worked. She’d call out instructions—“Not too much off the lavender, love; it needs room to breathe”—and he’d adjust, grateful for the ordinary task.
One day, as he knelt by the flowerbed, pulling stubborn weeds, she asked casually, “Where’s that girl of yours? Aria? I thought she might join you this time. The two of you seemed so close.”
He paused, dirt under his nails, heart twisting. “She’s busy with the album. Release coming up soon—needs to finish the last tracks.” It was the excuse he’d prepared, the one he repeated to himself. No need to worry her with the truth. Not now.
Nan hummed thoughtfully. “Shame.Tell her I said hello, won’t you?”
“I will,” he said, forcing a smile.
Evenings were softer still. Old movies on low volume—classics she loved, likeCasablancaorThe Great Escape—flickering across the screen as the winter sun dipped early. Nan dozed inher chair, murmuring half-asleep commentary: “Bogart always knew how to break a heart.” He’d watch her breathing, the faint rise and fall, memorizing the rhythm. Every detail felt like borrowed time—the way her hands rested loosely in her lap, the faint scent of lavender from the garden clinging to her cardigan.
He trained when he could—runs on the winter beach at dawn, the cold air burning his lungs as his feet pounded the sand. Gym sessions in the garage, weights clanging in the quiet, sweat mixing with the chill. Movement was his armour against the grief, a way to push back the thoughts that crowded in when he stopped.
But in the quieter moments— after Nan had gone to bed, lying awake in his old room—he couldn’t escape them.
The request to delay any public statement had been instinctive. He’d told Aria it was to avoid media distraction during the second half of the season—true enough. But deep down, it was more than that. He didn’t want Nan to hear about it. She’d watched every race, every interview, every carefully staged moment of “the couple.” She’d teased him about Aria in texts, sent him screenshots of fan edits with laughing emojis, asked when he was bringing “that lovely girl” back for tea. If the arrangement ended publicly now—clean break, mutual respect, no drama—she’d ask questions. She’d see the hurt in his eyes. She’d worry. And with her health fading, the last thing she needed was another burden, another reason to fret over him when she should be saving her strength for herself.
So he’d asked for the delay. A break. Differing schedules. Nothing final.
But there was another layer he couldn’t quite shake. He didn’t want to admit it was over. Not to the world, not to Nan, not even to himself. Saying it out loud would make it real—irreversible.He could still pretend the “break” was temporary, that once the season settled, once the grief over Nan eased, maybe there was a way back. He clung to that fragile thread, even as he knew it was fraying, unravelling with every unanswered question in his mind.
Lucas messaged once:
Lucas: How’s Nan?
Jax: Not great.
Lucas: Shit. I’m sorry, mate. Anything I can do?
Jax: Just keep pushing when you’re back. Team needs you.
Lucas: We’ll get you that title. For her.
Supportive. Steady. Necessary. But it didn’t fill the hole.
One afternoon, as the winter sun filtered through the clouds, Nan joined him in the garden for a bit, insisting on helping despite his protests. She knelt beside him carefully, pulling a few weeds with deliberate movements. “These things are stubborn,” she said, holding up a root. “Like you.”
He laughed quietly. “Like you, you mean.”
She dusted her hands and sat back on her heels, looking at him. “You’re carrying more than just me, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”
