Chapter 44
Travis
“The video has been taken down,” Norm reminds me for the third time since we’ve been on this call. “Your performance this weekend should quell the rumors he tried to spread.”
I push through the double doors of apartment building, slight relief washing over me. All I want to think about is seeing Alyssia soon. I hope like hell she hasn’t heard about this bullshit before I’ve gotten a chance to speak with her.
I’ve avoided telling her about the blackmail and threats, but with whoever is behind this trying to go public to embarrass me, it looks like telling her is inevitable. I’m returning later than planned because I had to meet with my team principal and some FIA officials over the rumors.
“What did Brandon say?” Norm asks of one of the FIA officials I met with.
“Right now, they’re just asking questions. But he said a formal investigation isn’t off the table.” I blow out a breath.
“I wish I had been at that meeting. We’ve got to figure out a way to spin this for your benefit. If we catch the wind the right way, I bet I can increase the number of sponsors interested in you. Controversy tends to sell.”
“I’m not playing this shit up,” I tell him just before I get to the elevator. “I will not have people thinking I’m a fucking cheater. What logical reason would I have to throw a race?” A question I repeated over and over to the few reporters who asked about the video post-race.
None had an answer besides money.
Ridiculous.
“Listen, I know you didn’t want me to put out an official statement over the weekend to bring any more attention to the matter or distract from the race, but I think it’s wise to draw up a just in case statement.”
I snort. “Annalise probably already has one on deck.”
Norm snorts. “Actually …”
I chuckle for the first time all day. I know my sister. Not only has she been in communication from afar all weekend, but she’s coordinated with my attorneys and Norm.
“There was a draft of a letter she wrote sitting in my inbox this morning.”
He chuckles.
“She probably should be your agent,” he says. “She’s got the goods for it.”
He’s right, but that’s a conversation for another day. Right now, the only person I want to see is behind the door I stand in front of.
“I just got home. I’ll talk to you later, Norm.”
“One more thing—”
“No.” I disconnect the call, unwilling to listen to any more about work or the bullshit storm I feel brewing.
I let the phone slide down from my shoulder to my hand while I adjust the cup and food in one hand.
“Hi.” I smile at Alyssia when she opens the door. “My key’s in my pocket and …” I hold up my hands with the holder with the cups of lemon ginger tea.
She returns my smile but it doesn’t meet her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping in the apartment and shouldering the door closed behind me.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head.
When I give her a look, her shoulders fall.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.”
My gaze drops to her belly. “Baby moving a lot at night?”
I read that this is the time that expecting mothers lose sleep for a variety of reasons. I even read a blog post that claimed it’s actually Mother Nature’s way of preparing the mother for being up in the middle of the night when the baby comes.
While I don’t know how true that last one is, I know I don’t like the idea of Alyssia being uncomfortable.
“It’s later than usual but I thought you might be hungry,” I say from the kitchen as I place our food down before spinning to her and taking her into my arms.
“The pregnancy pillow didn’t help with sleeping?”
She shrugs with one shoulder, not meeting my eye contact. “It’s normal. No big deal.”
I lean in to kiss her, which she doesn’t turn away from but doesn’t return too enthusiastically.
“Have you eaten?”
She shakes her head.
“Let’s have it on the balcony,” I suggest when she starts setting out plates on the kitchen table.
“Not today. Kitchen’s fine.”
I pause and look at her. She’s actively avoiding me. This is about more than a bad night of sleep.
Damn, I wonder if she heard about or saw that video. I curl my hand into a fist at the thought.
Once our veggie omelet, chicken sausage, and croissant breakfast is on the table, I hold a chair out for her before taking my own at the table.
“Did your dad fly back with you?” she asks.
I nod. “He took a flight back last night,” I tell her. “He doesn’t like being away from Mom for too long.”
I don’t tell her that I needed to stay longer for the meeting with the FIA officials.
Alyssia returns a half-smile.
I reach across the wooden table and take her free hand into mine. “I know the feeling.”
It physically aches to be away from her for more than a few days at this point.
Alyssia falls into another silence, again not making eye contact with me.
“Are you working from home today?” I ask.
She nods.
“Is there any chance you can take off?”
“Probably not.”
“Are you sure? I was thinking maybe we could have the day to ourselves. Maybe even drive into Italy for the day to do some sightseeing.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She sighs, still avoiding eye contact.
“Alyssia?”
She doesn’t raise her gaze to meet mine.
“Alyssia? Can you look at me?”
When her eyes finally rise, the misery in them makes my chest cave in.
I drop my fork and take both of her hands into mine.
“Baby, I’m sorry about what you had to find out—”
“I saw Gunther yesterday,” she says out of nowhere.
She pulls her hands free, causing a tear in my heart.
“You told me on the phone last night that you ran into him,” I remind her.
Her gaze moves from her half-eaten breakfast back to me. “You never told me why he left F1 in the first place.”
It’s no longer the look in her eyes, or the fact that she can only meet mine for a few beats at a time. It’s the distant, cold tone in her voice that makes my chest tighten with something ugly.
“Alyssia.”
“You never mentioned that he was in an accident so fucking horrific, so terrible, that his damn car was ripped in two. Half of which burst into flames.” Her eyes fill with tears. “The half he was in.”
That hideous day comes racing back to the forefront of my mind. Gunther was in his burning car for less than half a minute, but it felt like an eternity. Never have I heard a racetrack become so quiet as the day of Gunther’s accident.
“He survived.”
“So did I,” she says, looking me in the eye with such pain in her gaze that it rips my chest right open.
She rises from her seat and begins pacing.
“Baby, we talked about this. Gunther survived that accident because of all of the safety equipment our cars and our suits are equipped with.”
She makes a clucking sound with her tongue. “Yeah, but he still has the scars, doesn’t he? I felt it that first night I shook his hand at the gala. Didn’t realize until I saw that video last night what those scars represented.”
“They’re a result of a fluke,” I caution her. “A once in a lifetime accident, that—”
“Whose lifetime, Travis?” she yells. “What if he’d gone into the barrier at a different angle? A few inches higher and his damn head would’ve been—”
She breaks off as the first tear falls. Alyssia angrily wipes it away.
“And now he’s going back, isn’t he? He’s returning to race in the same sport that almost killed him.”
I go to tell her that it wasn’t as bad as it looked, but I don’t.
The last thing she needs right now is for me to be condescending.
“Baby, that didn’t happen because the barriers on the track are regulated, just like almost everything else in the race is built to keep us as safe as possible. I’ve shown you all of our safety equipment, remember?”
She lets out a laugh devoid of humor while still pacing.
“You know what I don’t remember? What you failed to tell me? That every single one of those safety measures is written in blood.”
The ground starts to fall from beneath my feet as I stare at her, tears running down her face.
Her bottom lip begins trembling while her hand goes to her left shoulder, massaging it.
When I try to take a step in her direction, she steps back. Away from me.
It feels as if the world is crashing down around me.
I thought telling her about the safety measures would give her the assurance she needed.
But I fucked up. She’s absolutely right.
Just about every single safety measure implemented in my sport has come at the cost of a human life—sometimes many human lives.
I swallow the brick that sits in my throat, searching for the right words to let her know that I had only her peace of mind as the center focus of my actions.
The words spiral around in my mind like a hurricane but don’t come out.
Why the hell did I believe that I could keep this part of my sport from her?
“There hasn’t been a death in Formula 1 in well over a decade.”
She drops her head back and laughs. The mocking undertone slices through me.
“Right. What about Max’s father? Severino Ferreira?”
It’s as if ice water has been poured down my spine. “Ferreira,” I repeat, my heart sinking.
A dark, heavy weight begins to close in on me.
“The legend,” she says bitterly. “Isn’t that what Sam had called him at the museum?” A legend who died in the middle of race right in front of his son?”
I bite back a curse.
“But it’s okay because new course barriers were implemented after his death, right? What else?” she asks. “Oh, right, the damn halo you raved about was finally required after years of debate as a result of his death,” she scoffs.
“Only took ten years for the FIA to make it standard. Now his son gets to risk his life, but don’t worry because it’s safe now.”
She’s gone down the rabbit hole of my sport. Beyond the glitz and glamour seen on social media, there’s a sordid, and at times ugly history here. My stomach twists and turns in knots for my stupidity in thinking I could keep this from her.
“Alyssia, we’ve come a long way in the two decades since Severino’s death.”
She finally stops pacing, but the distance between us remains. Almost as if it were a palpable force, keeping us separated.
“And if we have a son, Travis? One who takes after his father and decides to drive F1? What new safety feature will his car have as a result of your death? Tell me?” Her words break off on a sob.
“Please.” I try to pull her into my arms, but she pushes me away.
“Don’t,” she says, almost stumbling backwards into the fridge.
“Baby, be careful.”
Another mocking laugh. “Careful? Right? That’s my line, isn’t it? After all, I’m not the one who tries to drive to my death for a living.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I tell her.
“How do you know?” she shouts at the top of her lungs.
“Baby, you have to calm down, please.”
Her hands drop to her belly.
“You’re upset. We can talk about this, but please calm down. Think about the baby.”
“I am thinking of our child, Travis. Are you? Are you thinking of what it would feel like for our child to lose his father in an accident? One that could’ve been prevented? I already know what that feels like. Maybe you should ask Max how it feels,” she shouts.
“Don’t touch me,” she screams when I try to approach her again.
For her sake and our baby’s, I take a step back.
“I can’t do this,” she says, wagging her head as tears fall to the floor in front of her.
Her tears create tiny pools on the wooden tiles that reflect our distorted images.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
She was becoming more at ease with my sport, more comfortable with the idea of what I do for a living. I’d started to dream that it wouldn’t be an issue moving forward, not one that stopped us from being together—a family. A real family.
But now as I look at her crumpled, pained expression the truth of my naivete is revealed.
“You need to leave.”
Every instinct inside of me wants to stay … needs to stay. I can’t leave her crying and alone like this. I need her.
Alyssia’s sobs are what convince me that she’s right. It’s too painful for her for me to be here right now. I gather every ounce of strength I have and force myself to take a step back.
When my brain and heart tell me to run toward her, to grab her in my arms and make her see reason, I listen to the smallest voice inside of me that tells me she needs space. That I’d do more damage remaining here than doing as she asks and leaving.
On trembling legs, as I stand outside of the door, I pull out my phone and dial the one woman I trust right now.
“Mom.”
“Travie, hi. I thought—”
“I need you to come up here,” I say. “Alyssia needs … someone and it can’t be me and I don’t want her to be alone. Can you please—”
“I’m on my way.”
I sink against the door and wait for my mom to arrive. While it shreds my heart to hear her on the other side crying, I don’t turn and go in. I wait.
Five minutes later, my mom comes off of the elevator, takes one look at me, and asks, “What happened?”
I shake my head.
“Just make sure she’s okay. She shouldn’t be alone.” I hand her the key from my pocket.
Mom gently twists the doorknob, letting herself in.
At this point, I should walk away, leave my mom with Alyssia because I know she’ll take care of her right now, but I can’t. Instead, I remain with my back pressed against the door.