Now #2
I nod. “Some race weekends have sprints on Saturdays. It’s not as long as the main event, only a hundred kilometers. And he won by like, eleven seconds, which is actually insane on a race this short. It’s a safe bet to assume he won’t disappoint us this time either.”
“I didn’t know you were that much into Formula One,” someone points out with amusement.
“Or maybe she’s just really into Jackson Reyes, like everyone who has a pulse.”
I smile so I don’t look too suspicious, but she pretty much summed it up. And when Jax appears on the screen, and I can’t stop myself from watching, I think it’s obvious why I know so much about his stats. But everyone’s as absorbed as I am, so it’s unlikely someone even notices.
“Why is he always the first in line?” someone wonders.
“It’s called pole position. They had a three-part qualifying session yesterday, where they determined who gets to race and then who starts in which position. The driver who completes the quickest lap gets pole,” I mindlessly explain.
It matters to some extent, but I’m fairly certain Jax would win even if he started from the back of the grid. He’s done it in the past, just to prove to the world that he could do anything.
Cynthia squints at me, surprised yet again by how well I know the world of Formula One. “Did you watch yesterday’s sprint?” she asks.
“I put it on in the background as I reworked the Carters’ floor plans. Same for practice and qualifying.”
“Again, I’m trying to understand why you never mentioned that you were into Formula One. It’s been five years, Evie.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. It just never really felt relevant to mention it. And I’m not that big of a fan. I just know stuff.”
“Sure …”
Because I made the mistake of sharing some of my knowledge, I’m now the designated explainer, along with Cynthia.
None of our friends are truly familiar with the sport, so aside from watching those cars go round and round until one of them finishes first, they aren’t aware of the more subtle technicalities.
To no one’s surprise, Jackson wins for the fifth time this season in five races.
He might actually be on his way to set a new world record.
The bar is full of joy and celebration, and I can’t help the pride that swells within me.
I married that man. Someone as extraordinary as Jax wanted me as his wife.
“It’s sweltering here in Miami, but I don’t think the crowd minds,” the host expresses with excitement from the TV’s speakers. “After yesterday’s sprint, it’s a surprise to no one to see Reyes win here in Miami, his twelfth victory in the US. He is a true American hero.”
Jax is done with his cooldown lap, so he pulls into the narrow lane beside the pit straight and stops in front of the board marked 1.
Once the engine is off, he hauls himself out of the cockpit and walks toward his team.
They smack his helmet, wrapping him in tight, excited hugs over the railing, and exchange high fives.
When he finally tugs the helmet and black balaclava off, his face appears on the screen, flushed and soaked in sweat. It looks like it’s particularly hot because even the fireproof fabric of his race suit is drenched.
“Ugh, he’s so dreamy,” one of my friends lets out, practically drooling on the table. I can’t blame her. He’s a remarkably attractive man.
We watch as Jackson does his usual winning routine, goes through the post-race protocol, and then moves on to the interview stand for some quick questions. He easily answers despite the adrenaline rush he must still be going through.
Mindlessly, he opens his race suit as he talks, likely to beat the heat, exposing the soaked fabric of his undershirt. Something golden against it catches my eye. Something I never thought I’d see again.
My locket. The one I gave him. The one he used to wear for luck during every single race. The one I thought I’d lost forever after I walked away. He has it. And he’s wearing it, still, years after I left him, during a race. Does he wear it under his suit every time?
That revelation throws me into such a state of distress that even Cynthia notices. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asks, gently grazing my arm.
“Yes, I—I got a little lightheaded. I think I’ll go home now that the race is over.”
“So soon?”
“Yes, don’t worry about me. I’m good, I promise.”
She doesn’t insist, probably thinking this is about Nathan, and after saying bye to everyone, I walk out into the parking lot with my things.
I haven’t even made it to my car when my phone rings. I check, thinking I forgot something at the table, but freeze when I see the caller. Jackson …
How? He’s barely made it to the cooldown room at this point. Why is he calling me?
Still confused about what I just saw, about him having—and wearing—my locket, I decide to ignore the call. I stare at the screen until the ringing stops and let out a sigh before resuming the walk to my car. I’ve just reached it when it rings again.
Dozens of people want to talk to him right now, either to congratulate or interview him. But I’m the one he wants to hear from, less than ten minutes after winning a race.
That’s enough for me to give in and pick up. “Hey,” I greet.
“Hi.” I can hear people talking near him, probably the other two drivers in the cooldown room.
“You won again.”
“I did.”
“And you didn’t get bored this time. You were steady and focused on every lap.”
“Yeah, I … I found a trick to keep me engaged.”
“Oh?”
“You remember that first trip we took from Colorado to Indiana?”
“Of course.”
“I told the team to ask me a ‘Would You Rather’ question every time I passed the start line. I looked forward to it and remained focused so I could get to the next question faster.”
“See? It’s an entertaining game,” I say with a proud smile.
“You were right. But as far as car games go, my favorite remains ‘Head of State.’”
Trying to contain my laugh only makes it come out as a snort. “It doesn’t sound like a game that can be played in a single-seater.”
“I don’t cross many state lines, anyway.”
“True.”
Someone shouts his name behind him, and he answers to wait.
“You should go get your trophy,” I insist.
“They’ll wait.”
“The whole podium ceremony will wait?”
He chuckles. “Yes. It’s not like they can do it without the driver who came out on top.”
Again, the way he makes me a priority has my emotions in a frenzy.
“Will you be coming back to these parts anytime soon?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t think I’m pathetic.
“Yes, but I’m not sure when. I have some contractual events I can’t get out of in London.”
“Monaco is in a month, right? It’s a big one, I’m sure you have a lot to prepare for it.”
There must be something in my voice because he feels the need to say, “I’ll try coming back as soon as I can, Evie.”
“Don’t rush for me. I have a busy life, remember? I can occupy myself for a few weeks without you.”
“Right. And you have a terribly boring fiancé for your downtime.”
My smile falls, and my heart clenches. He doesn’t know about Nathan. Of course he doesn’t. I didn’t tell him, and it’s not like any of the people who know would think of telling him.
Once more, someone calls for him. “You should really go.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Let me know when you’re around, okay?”
“Will do, princess.”
He hangs up, leaving me alone in the busy parking lot of the bar.
What am I doing? What are we doing? What do these calls, and visits, and dinner dates mean? I’m trying so hard not to let this become more than a friendly reunion between exes, but maybe we can’t help ourselves. We’re drawn to one another like moths to a flame. We’ve always been that way.
But it doesn’t work. We tried. We failed. Hard.
I’m conflicted the entire drive home. My evening routine happens while I ponder the whole time. And as I sit at my vanity table to apply my night cream, my attention keeps drifting to the jewelry box.
I manage to hold back, but only until I’m done.
That’s when I grab the box and begin shuffling through its contents.
I find the earrings first, the little diamond studs he got me to celebrate our first year together.
Letting myself be sentimental, I put them on, replacing the small hoops I was wearing.
Then I look again until I find it. My wedding band.
It feels wrong to slip it on, especially since I was wearing Nathan’s engagement ring up until last week.
So instead, I look at it, reacquainting myself with its design.
I didn’t want a plain band, but most of the options they had at the chapel were tacky and tasteless.
All but this one: two slim bands woven into one another, and tiny little white gems spread along them.
To this day, I’m still not sure if it’s gold or real diamonds. Given the price we paid for it, I doubt it. But at least it never turned my finger green, and that’s all I ever needed.
Jackson was so nervous that day but still determined. His hands were clammy in mine, and they only trembled a little as he slipped the modest ring onto my finger. I remember looking at it, thinking I’d never take it off. Not one day of my life.
And now, it sits at the bottom of my messy jewelry box, discarded and forgotten.
Sensing more of those pesky emotions coming, I return it to its place, as well as the other things I took out.
This isn’t happening. Nothing is getting rekindled. I walked out on that marriage for a reason, and it still stands true.