Chapter 20
PARC FERMé
Jonathan was staying at the Whittlebury Hall Hotel & Spa, the kind of polished luxury reserved for drivers and senior team staff, its lights glowing just beyond the dark edge of the circuit.
Jonathan had been silent since we left the restaurant, processing his father’s unexpected intervention.
“So,” I said finally. “That wasn’t what I expected.”
“That’s my father,” he said quietly. “Everything comes with conditions.”
“How about when you came out to your parents? Were there conditions then?”
He breathed out slowly, like he’d been expecting the question.
“Though Millfield was co-ed, because of the emphasis on sports it felt like a boys’ school most days.
Because I was so busy racing I had plenty of excuses not to date girls.
” He smiled ruefully. “Then I came back to the States, and though I kept racing when I could, I ran out of excuses not to go on dates. I tried. I went on a date with a girl from my economics class just to prove I could.”
“And?”
“And I felt nothing. I went back to my dorm and threw up from the stress of pretending so hard.”
I didn’t say anything. He kept going.
“I called my mum,” he said quietly. “Told her, ‘I think I’m gay.’ There was this long pause, and then she said, ‘Oh, thank God. I thought you were phoning to tell me you had cancer or you’d crashed the car.’”
I let out a laugh before I could stop myself. He didn’t.
“She meant it,” he added. “She wasn’t being funny. That was honestly her first reaction. Relief that it wasn’t something worse.”
My smile faded. “She was okay with it?”
“She said she already knew,” he said, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Said she was just waiting for me to stop pretending she didn’t.”
“That’s good.”
“She made it easier. My dad… didn’t. He asked whether I was sure. Told me it might complicate sponsorships, family reputation, inheritance. Said it would be better for everyone if we didn’t talk about it outside the house.”
“And you agreed?”
“I wanted to race. And I thought that meant I had to trade pieces of myself away to keep the rest.”
He looked at me then, raw and honest.
“Until I realized I couldn’t keep doing that.”
He stopped walking. “I’m not telling you this for sympathy,” he said quietly. “I just want you to understand how I learned to live.”
I felt a sudden rush of gratitude for how different my own parents had been. “I came out to my family because I was tired of the hiding, of all the effort it took to make up stories about who my friends were, what activities I took part in.”
“How did your parents take it?”
“Surprisingly well. One of my father’s best customers was a gay man with a high-end Land Rover who was one of the plaintiffs in Whitewood v.
Wolf, the case that legalized same-sex marriage in Pennsylvania.
Hearing him talk about the guy and how he just wanted to make his relationship legal gave me the courage to open up, and compare myself to his customer. ”
Jonathan nodded slowly, like he was filing the story somewhere careful.
I smiled, watching the boy flicker through the man, the same mix of arrogance and joy that had once terrified and fascinated me in equal measure. The night air was cool, but something in my chest felt warm, dangerously so.
Two journalists pushed out of the hotel ahead of us, still arguing in low voices about a rumor they couldn’t quite confirm. The words embargo and source drifted back on the air.
Jonathan’s expression sharpened.
“Transparency,” he said, kicking a small stone ahead of us as we walked. “That’s what he’s suggesting. Full disclosure to the people who matter, then working twice as hard to prove the relationship doesn’t compromise either of our jobs.”
Michael’s proposal had been surprisingly pragmatic. Rather than demanding we hide the relationship or end it, he’d outlined a strategy that acknowledged reality while protecting our professional integrity.
“Think Thea will go for it?” I asked.
“Elena will. She’s already figured it out anyway.” Jonathan glanced at me. “Your editor’s the wild card. How does Apex handle conflicts of interest?”
I thought about Thea Blackwood’s reputation for ethical journalism and her intolerance for anything that might compromise the magazine’s credibility. “She’ll want safeguards. Other editors reviewing my Jonathan-specific pieces, maybe rotating me to cover other drivers more heavily.”
“Dad’s right about one thing. You interviewing Hamilton and Leclerc more often would strengthen your position. Shows you’re not just the American driver’s personal press secretary.”
We reached the highway, where the steady whisper of traffic became louder.
“Are we making a mistake?” I asked. “Your father made it sound manageable, but the scrutiny, the questions about every article I write…”
Jonathan stopped walking, turning to face me under the pale glow of a highway lamp. “Waldo, three months ago I was a midfield driver hoping for points finishes. Now I’m qualifying on the front row at Silverstone, fighting for podiums, with a real shot at race wins. You think that’s coincidence?”
“The car’s improved,” I said.
“The car’s part of it. But having you here, having someone who understands what this means? It’s made me braver. More willing to push the limits when it matters.”
I studied his face in the sodium lighting, seeing the certainty there that had been building since Monaco. “And if I write something critical? If you have a bad race and I analyze what went wrong?”
“Then you write something critical. That’s your job.” His smile was soft but confident. “Besides, if you’re not holding me accountable, who will?” He laughed. “That is, besides my father.”
We resumed walking, heading back to where he had parked his rental car.
“Your father wants to meet with Thea Blackwood personally,” I said. “Explain the situation, offer to fund additional fact-checking if it helps maintain credibility.”
“Subtle as a brick, my father. But effective.” Jonathan’s tone carried affection mixed with exasperation. “He’s spent twelve years protecting his investment in my career. Now he’s protecting his investment in us.”
“Is that what this is? An investment?”
“From his perspective? Probably. From mine?” Jonathan stopped again, this time pulling me close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. “This is me choosing to be happy instead of just successful.”
He kissed me then, soft and certain, with the kind of confidence that came from making decisions rather than just reacting to circumstances. When we broke apart, I felt something settle into place. Not the desperate uncertainty of stolen moments, but the steady certainty of a choice made openly.
“Tomorrow’s going to be complicated,” I said against his lips.
“Tomorrow I’m going to try to win my first Grand Prix,” he replied. “With my father in the garage, the editor from Apex watching, and my boyfriend writing about it honestly regardless of the outcome.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“Unless you prefer ‘the journalist I’m sleeping with’?”
I laughed despite the weight of everything we’d committed to tonight. “Boyfriend works.”
As we walked, I watched the way Jonathan carried himself now. Lighter, almost, but also more exposed.
Transparency instead of secrecy. Higher standards instead of lower ones.
It sounded clean on paper. In practice, it meant every misstep would be louder, every mistake harder to explain.
Jonathan squeezed my hand once, like someone bracing for impact rather than retreat.
“I need to be careful tonight,” he said, not apologetic, just honest. “Not because of us. Because tomorrow I have to be very, very clean in my head.”
I nodded. Of course he did.
He pressed his forehead to mine for a brief second, grounding rather than affectionate.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” he said quietly, “this doesn’t get to be the reason it went wrong.”
And then he stepped back. He was already halfway into race mode.
Tomorrow, the scrutiny would begin. And we would find out whether choosing openly meant choosing wisely.