Now #2
We’re back in Tuscany, following Jackson’s crash in Zandvoort.
Everything is the same as the first time we were here, but nothing feels like it did before.
It was just us two before, blissfully ignorant of everything that went on past these walls and the land that surrounds them.
We were two people in love who lived outside of reality. In our own little world.
And even though it’s technically still true, I haven’t felt that way since we got here. Not even for an hour.
Because this time around, the rest of the world knows about us.
About me, specifically. And it has been all over the news.
A hundred times more than his crash. It seems to be the only thing the Formula world can talk about.
The woman who finally snatched Jackson Reyes.
The ex who returned for his money. The white trash from Colorado who slept her way into Formula One royalty.
I never realized how cruel people could be. The human mind might be vile by default, and we work our way up, learning to be kind and compassionate. But many of them never even try to do that. They’re perfectly fine with their vicious thoughts.
When I find a video I haven’t watched yet, I click on it.
It was posted only three hours ago, but forty thousand people have already watched it.
After a quick ad, it starts. A woman in her twenties stands before a curated background, shelves filled with Formula One memorabilia, books, framed photos …
“It looks like Jackson Reyes, the infamous bad boy of Formula One, has finally been snatched,” the woman explains.
“Reyes, who has a reputation for being quite the Don Juan, was last seen with Ukrainian model Dasha Glavan earlier this year, in February.” Along with the explanation comes a paparazzi photo of Jax with his arm around the shoulders of a tall and slender woman with dark hair.
It stays on the screen long enough to sting before the YouTuber resumes.
“Since then, there have been no rumors of him dating another woman. And that’s a little suspicious when you know him. You can find in my older videos a recap of all his known conquests last year. For those who recall, it was a whopping twenty-three women. And that’s only the ones we know of.”
Okay, that also stings. Maybe even more than the photo with the model.
“However, things took an unexpected turn last weekend at the Dutch Grand Prix,” she continues in her annoyingly shrill voice.
“Reyes was seen walking around with a woman, apparently giving her a tour of the Altron pit. And while Jackson is a bit of a ladies’ man, it was the first time we’ve ever seen him bring someone to the paddock and pit.
The only ones so far were his mom and dad, Jada and Mitchell Reyes. ”
Again, she shares pictures, which were snapped on Sunday. Some look professional, some from afar with a phone, but we’re clearly recognizable in all of them, in the garage, at the pit wall, or even before that, walking together.
“Then, a bit later, Reyes was spotted by the Altron three-story motorhome in the paddock, kissing his female guest,” she says with an air of mystery.
This time, it’s two photos of the same moment at different angles. It’s from when I kissed him, right before he left for the race. I’ve already seen those pictures dozens of times, obsessively reading articles and watching videos I know I should stop clicking on, but they still sit wrong with me.
It felt so right to kiss him then, to fully embrace this thing between us … But seeing us like this, knowing those pictures have been circulating all over the internet, feels like a violation. It’s like they stole a piece of us.
“And of course,” the woman continues, “we all heard what happened in Zandvoort when the broadcast shared Jackson’s radio feed in the moments that followed his crash.”
Instead of pictures, she shares an audio clip. It crackles as it did that day, Jackson’s voice gruff, still in shock. “Evie, I’m okay. I’m alright, princess. I’m not hurt.”
It throws me back to three days ago, when I heard those words in the headset, my heart slamming against my ribs as I stared at the screen in the Altron garage, watching Jax exit his wrecked car.
The crash wasn’t as bad as the one I witnessed in Spa, but it still tore a small piece of my soul out. Especially since this time, the fault clearly came from him. And Jackson doesn’t make this kind of mistake. Ever.
The woman on the screen claps her hands and rubs them together.
“So, of course, everyone began wondering, ‘Who is Evie, and why would Jackson Reyes address her before anyone else?’ Well, the internet sleuths have been at it. And they found her. Meet Evangeline Gillian,” she explains, a picture of me from Cynthia’s website appearing beside her.
“She’s a small-time architect in Colorado—near Florence, where Jackson grew up.
She doesn’t have social media, so there wasn’t much to find online aside from her LinkedIn.
However, that didn’t stop the Sherlock Holmes among us from making a shocking discovery. ”
Right before she can share what the discovery is, there’s an ad break. “Motherf—” I let out, catching myself. While the DivaCup ad runs, I grab the bottle of wine and refill my glass.
I’m two sips in when the woman returns. “Believe it or not, but the enigmatic Evangeline Gillian was once Evangeline Reyes. Yes, you’ve heard that right.
She and Jackson were married. It’s likely no one ever found out because there are so many Jackson Reyes, but if you put his name and hers in the search engine, you’ll find a license from the state of Nevada, dating back eleven years. ”
A screenshot of our marriage license appears, and I’m once more baffled by the depths they will go to. Why do they care so much about other people’s lives? Why do they need to dig so hard into Jackson’s past? Don’t they have their own lives to live? Their own businesses to run?
“And you haven’t even heard the craziest part yet!” the woman continues. “But before I share it with you, let me tell you a little more about today’s sponsor, Roadtate, the number-one magazine for motorsport lov—”
“I think the hell not,” I mumble, skipping farther into the video. How is this half an hour long?! What more could she possibly say about me?!
I find the moment she continues her “thrilling” investigation and bring my glass to my lips as she resumes.
“So, as I was saying, you might think that Reyes having a secret wife is enough of a crazy revelation, but it gets crazier. By a mile. So, it’s not really a surprise, but they’re divorced.
I mean, we’ve all seen how Reyes has been shamelessly parading his conquests around since he got into Formula One.
But some determined people have been looking back into Jackson’s career, looking for pictures where Evangeline Gillian might appear.
And, like the sneaky little detectives they are, they found her—early on, when he was in Formula 2. ”
Pictures of Jax and me from when we lived in Belgium appear.
Gosh, we look so young … It hurts a little to see myself in the background of most of them, keeping my distance so his bachelor’s image would remain untouched.
No wonder they never realized I existed.
All of this mess would have happened far sooner if we’d been more physically intimate then.
“The latest pictures on record are from the Spa-Francorchamps track, when he was still in his first season of Formula 2,” the woman continues.
“They’re from the day he had the accident that gave him his famous eyebrow scar.
Beyond that point, they weren’t photographed together again until last Sunday.
So, it’s safe to assume they separated around that time.
But the genuinely crazy thing is: the divorce came through only six weeks ago.
And now they seem to be together again. Anyhow, I have plenty more receipts to share with you all, so I hope you are strapped in.
This might end up being two or three parts if more information about Evangeline Gillian comes along.
Don’t forget to like and subscribe, and as I keep dissecting this with you all, let me know in the comments what you think happened between them, and why they’re back together now. ”
She points down to the comment section with a smile while overlays encourage people to follow her.
Then she straightens up to say, “Now, let me share with you what people have found out about Jackson’s secret ex-wife.
Born in Colorado, she was raised in Florence like him.
Rumor has it she grew up in a trailer park. And from what was found—”
When a picture of the trailer park pops up, as well as a satellite image of it, I pause the video.
Just how far can these people go? I feel …
violated. They’ll reduce me to the little information they could find.
And I’m sure it won’t look good. From growing up in a trailer park to becoming an unlicensed architect in a small, uninteresting town.
My fingers shake as I scroll down. Over a thousand comments. “Don’t read them,” I tell myself. I don’t need to know what these people have to say about me. I can already guess.
Before I can stop them, my eyes glide to the top comment, like a deliberate accident. From trailer park to paddock club is CRAZY! wattpad ahh story, it says.
There. Exactly what I expected. Still, I can’t help the twinge in my heart. Over three thousand people liked the comment. Three thousand strangers who have reduced me to a cliché after watching a thirty-minute video. It can’t get much worse than that.
Picking up my glass, I down what’s left in three big gulps.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I mumble to myself, switching positions. I sit cross-legged and bring the laptop closer to read all the comments below, like a train wreck I can’t rip my eyes from.
Wait so she was there for BOTH crashes???? Bro she’s literally bad luck