Now
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
Evangeline
“Are you sure she’ll be alright?” I ask, looking back at Yasmine walking away.
“She has cash and a city full of casinos. She’ll be perfectly fine, and she’ll make some money at the poker table.”
The race ended long enough ago that most of the attendees have filtered out.
We watched Jackson cross the finish line from an amazing position.
I’ve finally decided to put the divorce money to good use and bought a weekend ticket that matched Cynthia’s and her wife’s.
I’m not sure if Jax paid the full price for them or if he gets such things for free, but Jesus, what a gift to give to a stranger.
What I couldn’t get, though, was paddock access. Those were sold out.
Nervousness has me a little tense as we walk toward the paddock entrance, where two people are guarding it fiercely.
We couldn’t come earlier because of the overactive rush between the race and the podium ceremony.
But hopefully, I’ll be there on time to see Jackson before he heads off to whatever party he plans on attending tonight.
We offer the security guards a small smile as we tap the card attached to our lanyard. The name Yasmine appears on the screen on my side, but the men don’t question it. Too bad, I had a whole excuse about having hippie parents lined up.
We stop at a stand that has the paddock plans, and Cyn points in a direction. “The Altron hospitality suite is over there.” I nod, and we walk toward the motorhome.
“Are you ready?” she asks as we close in.
“I’m not sure.” I’m definitely anxious, my chest is all tight.
“What are you scared of?”
“That he’ll be mad at me, which he has every right to be. That I’m too late, and he’s realized I’m not worth the hassle. That I’ll chicken out at the last moment because of my worries.”
“I’m sure it isn’t too late. He’s waited eight years before. What’s eleven weeks?”
“He … he hasn’t texted. Or called. Barely, at least. I thought he would. I thought he’d try to convince me to come back. Like he did last time, when he texted and called for months despite my lack of replies.”
She raised a judgmental eyebrow at me. “Can you blame him for not texting this time, then?”
I grimace. “You’re right.”
We arrive at the Altron motorhome, which is the biggest one here. This is the team’s homeland, and Wesley made sure that everyone would be reminded of that fact.
The electronic passes come with Altron access as well, so we’re allowed in without a problem.
This ground floor is a large room with tables and chairs gathered in clusters, a snacks and drinks station in the back, and another area that is more of a lounge.
The mechanics and engineers are all in the garage, dismantling it so it can be sent to the next race in Qatar.
But the rest of the team is here, and given the stares, it’s clear a few of them recognize me.
“Now what?” Cynthia whispers.
“I’m not sure …”
I look around, seeking a familiar face, a little lost. When I spot one, I call, “Lily!”
Justine’s assistant, who was heading for the door we just came through, stops and turns toward us. “Oh, Ms. Gillian. I didn’t—I didn’t know you were here this weekend.”
“I wasn’t, I … I’m here to see Jackson.”
“Oh, you just missed him. He left for the press conference. He should be back right after.”
“Thank you.”
“You can go wait on the third floor, if you want. It’s the partners and sponsors area. There’s a bar and a TV, so you can watch the press conference live.”
“Thank you, Lily.” After a nod and a smile, she resumes her walk and steps out of the motorhome.
Cynthia and I do as she suggested and make our way to the bar on the top floor. More people there recognize me, but no one says anything. I’m sure they’ve all realized Jackson and I were separated, and their loyalty goes to their teammate, of course.
We’ve just arrived at the impressive circular bar, sitting down on high stools, when I hear my name being called.
“Evangeline!”
Wesley Pryce is advancing toward us in one of his usual gray suits. As he reaches us, he lays a hand on my shoulder. “It’s good to have you back with us,” he says with a smile. “You have been missed.”
“Oh, thank you. Uh, this is my friend, Cynthia. She’s a big fan of your team. Cyn, this is Wesley Pryce, the—”
“Owner of Altron,” she finishes for me, a little stunned. “I’m a big fan, indeed, sir. Well, of Jackson, if I’m being honest. But Descamps is also a great driver.”
“Eh, Louis is alright,” Wesley says with a shrug.
Jackson’s teammate, whom we hadn’t noticed on the other side of the bar, pops his head to the side and loudly whines, “Hey, I heard that!”
Wesley doesn’t even flinch as he looks at his driver. “Be on the podium more, kid.”
“I’m trying,” he says sheepishly.
“Anyhow, I’m glad you’re back, Evangeline. I hope you’ll stick around this time. Jackson hasn’t been the same without you, and I prefer the Jackson that doesn’t have me worrying about my fifteen-million-dollar car every race.”
“I plan on sticking around for as long as he’ll let me, Wes.”
With a wink, he leans in to say, “Something tells me neither of us will ever see the day he stops wanting you around.”
On the screen set up above the bar, some movement attracts our eyes. Jackson and the two drivers who were on the podium with him fifteen minutes ago are sitting down on the white couch.
Wesley seems to decide he wants to watch the press conference with us, so he sits down on the stool next to me. A quick motion of his hand brings the waiter to us. “I’ll have a whiskey. And anything my friends here want, top shelf.”
Cynthia orders a cosmopolitan, but I stick to iced tea. I don’t want alcohol clogging my mind when Jax returns.
We watch the interview unfold, and I can’t rip my eyes from the screen any time Jackson’s on it. He’s the most absurdly handsome man I’ve ever seen. Even looking a little tired as he does. And even with the quiet sadness that lingers on his perfect face.
Hopefully, I’ll get to erase it completely if he agrees to talk to me. Which I think he will. He has the patience of a saint, and while I probably don’t deserve a third chance at this, I suspect he’ll give it to me.
I’ve decided what I want, and I won’t let anything take it away from me. Not anymore.
Once the media frenzy died down, I realized it wasn’t as awful as my anxiety had made it out to be. Or maybe it was, but I’d grown a tougher skin by the end of it. And much like Jackson, who’s now unfazed by all that, I’ll eventually become immune to it, too.
I may not like the world he lives in or feel comfortable in it, but I love him far more than I hate it.
And if the price of being with this man is a few uncomfortable weekends every year, I’ll face them with my head held high.
As for all the online hate and harassment, I’ll steer clear of it.
I was never on social media before, and I won’t come close to it now.
They can say whatever the heck they want about me.
I don’t care. Jackson Reyes wants me, and there’s nothing their jealous keyboard rage can do about that.
I hear my name on the TV, which pulls my attention back to it. “… may have influenced that change. Would you care to confirm or deny whether there’s any truth to that?”
“Did he just ask a question about me?” I wonder. A quick glance to either side gives me my answer. Cynthia and Wesley are both looking at me instead of the television, waiting to see how I’ll react.
On the screen, Jackson visibly tenses up. He doesn’t answer personal questions. He made that very clear to me. For a second, I think the moderator will move on.
Then Jackson starts talking. The room falls silent around him. So does ours. I quickly lose track of what the journalist originally asked because this isn’t an answer.
It’s a love letter.
And with every word, my vision blurs a little more.
He’s correcting the narrative. Explaining who I am.
Telling people how things actually happened.
But somewhere along the way, it becomes something else entirely.
Something raw and unfiltered. The words don’t sound rehearsed.
They don’t sound strategic. They sound like they’ve been trapped inside him for months, maybe years, and he simply can’t hold them back anymore.
And the strangest part is that while what he says resonates deeply, it’s not meant for me. I already know all of it. I know how much he loves me. I know what those years meant to him. I know the sacrifices we made together. None of this is for me.
It’s for everyone else. The strangers who turned me into a headline, the people who decided who I was without knowing me, and everyone who mocked me, insulted me, reduced me to some caricature they could laugh at.
He hates this. The interviews. The speculation. The way every careless word gets taken out of context. He built his reputation on refusing to participate in that game, refusing to give them anything they could twist or weaponize.
Yet here he is. Sitting on that white couch, in front of cameras broadcasting live to millions of people, voluntarily handing them pieces of himself. For me.
By the time he’s done, I’m a wreck. If I weren’t in public, I’d be bawling my eyes out, overwhelmed by love for this man.
Now I’m sure. I know he’ll take me back.
And the feeling is so liberating, I want to scream.
But I can’t because the people around us, even Louis Descamps on the other side of the circular bar, all stare at me.
The silence that follows Jackson’s tirade only lasts for a moment before the journalists erupt with follow-up questions.
“Hm, we should probably get you somewhere private before word of your presence gets out and they storm this place like rabid dogs,” Wesley notes, turning to me.
Wiping my cheeks, I nod. “You should probably return to Yasmine,” I tell Cynthia. “This might take a while, and I don’t want to keep you away from your wife longer.”
“I can stay.”
“No, I’ll be okay. I promise.”