Now #2
It wasn’t easy, and it never got any easier. The awareness that he could crash and hurt himself beyond repair. The fact that he could be burned alive in his car if something goes wrong. I trust him, I know he can do this without a hiccup, but what of the other drivers? I don’t trust them as much.
At least Jax dominates the race and is rarely alongside other drivers. He’s a god among gods, and watching the way he almost glides through the track with clinical precision is impressive. We’re far from the rallycross races I used to accompany him to.
When he pulls into the pit lane, I watch as a dozen men and women work their magic in seconds. It used to be just the two of us working on Winifred whenever the garage would have us, but now he has an army of skilled mechanics and technicians doing it for him.
I only start breathing normally again when Jackson finishes his final lap, winning the race in under an hour and twenty-two minutes—a new personal record, according to the hosts.
The whole bar erupts in cheerful joy, as if we’re a part of this. I suppose it’s an American driver on an American team, but this isn’t quite like when your home state team wins the Super Bowl or something, is it? Just overpaid men and their very expensive, very fast cars—and huge egos.
We watch as Jackson does his cooldown lap, sticking his arm out of the halo to wave, talking to his team through the comms about the win.
Once he’s parked at the banner marked 1, he stands up and raises his hands in a victorious stance.
With practiced ease, he climbs out of the car and takes his helmet and balaclava off to reveal his handsome face, drenched in sweat and reddened with heat.
He then gives quick hugs to some team members over the railing, smacks a few high fives, and proceeds with the post-race formalities.
The others aren’t paying as much attention as before, but I can’t rip my eyes away as I watch him answer a few quick questions to a handful of interviewers.
I can still remember how nervous yet excited he was the first time someone shoved a mic in front of his face after a big win.
Now, it has become his routine, his norm.
There isn’t an ounce of uneasiness as he effortlessly answers whatever questions they throw at him.
“We should go,” Nathan suggests, resting a hand on my knee. “I have an early start tomorrow.”
“Right, sorry. Let’s go.”
We stand from our chairs and slip on our coats. We bid everyone a good evening, and on our way out of the bar, my fiancé wraps an arm around me to hold me close.
“That was fun,” he says with a grin.
“Yeah, I enjoyed spending time with everyone.”
“I still can’t believe Jackson Reyes is technically your husband.”
I grimace before saying, “I told you. We were young, in Vegas, and we made a rash decision.”
“Yeah, I know. Still crazy to me …”
We silently walk to the car, and he gets into the driver’s side as I hop into the passenger seat. We came in his, even though mine works perfectly fine again.
“Do you think, now that the race is over, that he’ll have time to sign the divorce papers?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
To justify the fact that Jackson still hasn’t signed them, I couldn’t think of anything other than him being extremely busy with the start of the season coming up.
I didn’t want to explain that my husband, who’s supposed to be a silly teenage crush, is essentially blackmailing me with those freaking papers.
“What time do you leave for Salt Lake tomorrow?” I wonder. Nathan often travels for his cases, but he usually stays within a four-hour radius. Thankfully, he’ll get to make a pit stop at his parents’ house, halfway into the long drive.
“My mom expects me for lunch, so I need to leave at six.”
“Oof, that’ll be a short night,” I say, aware we won’t be in bed before 1 a.m.
“Yes.”
“Are you still staying at my place?”
“Yeah, that way I get a head start.”
“Nice.”
Once we arrive at my house, he parks in the driveway behind my car, and we walk in together.
We’ve had enough evening routines to know exactly how it goes.
He showers first, then gets ready for the night and scrolls through the news in bed while I take my turn in the bathroom to shower and do my skincare steps.
When I come out of the bathroom, he’s sitting up against the headboard, his pillow tucked behind his lower back, wearing a white T-shirt.
Nathan is an attractive man by any standard.
He works out a couple of times a week, takes good care of himself, and has a solid hairline that shows no sign of receding anytime soon.
His hair is slightly lighter than mine, but he tans more easily, so his skin is darker.
He has about five inches on me, which I appreciate.
He’s alluring in a soft, cozy way, and time has only made me grow fonder of his charms.
His personality, though, is where we match best. In the two and a half years we’ve known each other, we haven’t had a single argument. We have the same overall temperament, though he might be even more easygoing than I am.
With him, I know exactly what to expect for the rest of my life, and I like it that way. Marriage, children, sunny vacations, chaotic family Christmases, cruises when we’re old and gray … An easy, comfortable life. Which is exactly what I long for.
“I’m getting myself a glass of water in the kitchen,” I explain. “The buffalo wings were so salty, I’m sure I’ll get thirsty. Do you want one?”
“Yes, thank you, honey.”
“Of course.”
As I pass by his side of the bed, I lean in for a quick kiss. He gladly grants it, then returns to his phone.
Once I’m downstairs, my discarded bag by the entrance reminds me I need to charge my phone. I head over to grab it and, as I pull it out, a piece of paper falls out and glides to the hardwood floor.
I pick it up and stare at the numbers written in black on it.
When I came back home that day after Jackson dropped me off at work, I found it tucked into my windshield. “Call me whenever,” it says, and below, his phone number.
It looks European, and I don’t even want to imagine what calling it in Australia will do to my phone bill. Though I guess I could use WhatsApp …
I stare at the numbers, then at the phone in my hand.
Nathan’s questions in the car have me wondering if he is also frustrated by how long this is taking.
When I started the whole process, I genuinely thought it would be sorted within a month.
But almost six of them have passed now, and I’m still no closer to having divorced Jackson.
Realistically, Jax’s life is about to become even more intense than it was during his off-season, with races all over the world every couple of weeks on average. But maybe he’ll realize that my pestering about the divorce papers isn’t worth adding to his mental load.
I head to the kitchen and lean against the counter as I enter the number into my phone. Then, I open it through WhatsApp and press the call button.
It goes on for a while, and with every ring, I want to hang up. Maybe I should just send him a text to remind him that he needs to sign the papers. That’s probably enough.
I’m about to hang up when he picks up. “Hello?” he says. The five-letter word is enough to make my belly flip.
“Hey. It’s me.”
I can hear the smile when he answers, “I knew you’d call.”
“Hm …”
There’s a pause, then he lets out a long, drawn-out breath.
“Congrats on the win,” I say.
“You watched?”
“Yeah, with some friends at a bar.”
“What did you think?”
“Well, you won.”
It’s as if he can sense the hesitation in my tone. “But …?” he insists.
“You got a little sloppy between laps 35 and 48. Your turns weren’t as sharply timed, and your braking was a little off.”
Another pause, another dragged-out breath from him.
“The press didn’t even notice that, Evie. But yeah, I got a little bored.”