27. Elizabeth
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Chalondra says when I finish telling her about my falling out with Jane.
I may have conveniently left out what happened between me and Wes.
No one needs to know about D.C. Or Cape Cod.
Or how I took a walk to clear my head after a frustrating meeting the other day and ended up in a luxury store, standing in front of the fragrance section and inhaling lungfuls of the sandalwood and cinnamon scent that has faded from Wes’s Red Sox hat.
Lord knows if I had included those details, Chalondra’s emphasis would have been on “fucking” rather than “kidding.”
“Nope,” I say, popping the “p”—a sure sign that I need to put the cocktail down and switch to water.
“I’m so sorry, Elizabeth,” she says. “Genuinely. I hate this for you. And I want better for your sister.”
I nod, but Jane’s words about how she wished I could respect her continue to echo in my ears. I never considered that disliking her husband means that I’m disrespecting her.
“Do you think she has a point?” I ask. “Am I a bad sister?”
“I can see how she thinks she’s protecting her peace,” Chalondra says, and I examine that, even though all it makes me want to do is book a session at one of those places where you go into a room and break things.
“But you are not a bad sister. You want what’s best for Jane.
And sure, sometimes we can overlook things people we love want even when we know they aren’t what’s best for them.
Lipstick colors. The cut of jeans they prefer.
Bangs. But a man? Ain’t no way in hell I’d stay quiet about that. ”
I smile, but the doubt lingers. “Do you think I should have at least gotten over how much I hate Todd by now?”
“The way I see it, you tolerate him the best you can. It’s not like you stood up and objected at the wedding.
” I don’t tell her that I seriously considered it.
“You caught him in a situation that seemed compromising. Should you have taken the initiative to tell Jane about it? Probably. But are you wrong to be skeptical of Todd? I don’t think so. ”
I tip the rest of the drink into my mouth, vowing not to order another. “I just wish I knew how to fix it.”
“I think this is a situation where time is the only solution.”
“Of course it has to be one of the only things in the universe I can’t control.”
Chalondra barks out a laugh. “Girl, if anyone could figure it out, it’d be you.”
“If only that were true,” I mutter, thinking of all the things I can’t seem to control at all.
“So, hey,” she says in a serious tone. “I saw something the other day that I can’t stop thinking about.”
I arch a brow. “Well that sounds intriguing.”
“I left a meeting on Thursday and realized I had forgotten my phone, so I went back to the conference room. One of the broadcast directors was sitting by himself.” Chalondra pauses and looks around before leaning in. “He was reading an email from Frederick Norton, Jr.”
My eyebrows shoot up all the way to my hairline. “Freddie’s dad?”
“Mhmm.”
Marcus said he knows Freddie’s dad well—it sounded like they went way back. “Did you read the email?”
“No. But I did see the email subject line. It said, ‘Favor’.”
“Huh,” I say, sitting back in my chair.
“Exactly,” Chalondra says. “It could be totally above board, but I thought it was odd that a driver’s father was emailing a broadcast director. And since it’s related to Martine, I thought you should know.”
“I appreciate that.”
Chalondra smiles. “Anytime. Now that that’s over with, what do you say we go order fries to soak up all this alcohol?”
“I think you mean chips,” I quip.
“Do not let them get to you,” she says. “Not on Fourth of July weekend.”
Despite how confused and frustrated and altogether helpless I’ve been feeling lately, I laugh at that.
On Sunday morning, while the rest of the team talks through race strategy, weather forecasts, and other science-based matters, I sit in my favorite conference room, considering what Wes is hiding about that video from the Chinese Grand Prix.
I planned to ask him about it yesterday, but after Freddie out-qualified him, I figured it was better to wait. Especially since the entire paddock is buzzing with the delicious irony that Wes might lose his seat because Freddie is now in possession of an upgrade that Wes created.
If I weren’t so cynical, I’d think this entire sport is just obsessed with Wes.
Since he’s both divisive and a fan favorite, even the quietest rumors about him are something worth repeating.
But that can be true and there can be someone out there ensuring the entire paddock is gossiping about his future to get in his head and ruin his season.
I have a high-pressure job and I still don’t fully understand how he manages the stress and expectations that are on him at all times. It’s impressive.
I lean back in the ergonomic chair and pick up my phone, scrolling through my playlists until I find one I turn to when I’m particularly stressed that is very literally titled, “I want nothing more than to watch the world burn, but unfortunately I have a job to do.” I shake my head at my dramatics, but copy the link and open my messages with Wes.
The thread is now filled with random information about animals since he, for whatever reason, has decided to educate me in zoology.
Though I’ve read them all and find them oddly comforting, I haven’t responded.
The realization that I not only acknowledged I care about Wes, but admitted it out loud to Stas is something I haven’t wanted to deal with—especially since “confront your feelings” is very low on my to-do list right now.
And though I know it’s petty and that a therapist would likely have a field day with this whole situation, I’ve decided the best thing to do is avoid Wes.
But here I am now, sending him a link to a playlist.
He messages back immediately.
WES GRANT
how did you know exactly what I was thinking
I’m a crisis specialist.
I stare at my phone, expecting another near-instantaneous reaction where he gloats about me texting him first or drops some obscure knowledge about aardvarks since he hasn’t sent today’s fact yet.
I blink hard. Why the hell am I waiting for a man to respond to me? What I should do instead is get my ass out in the paddock and tune in to the F1 whisper network.
But then my phone buzzes and the message makes my jaw drop.
Wes Grant
could you come to my room and specialize in mine? please?
It’s not the first time he’s needed me before a race. He’s sought me out, annoyed me, and asked others to bring me to him. But this is the first time he’s given me a choice about it.
I could say no. I could tell him I’m not at his beck and call, that I’m not his personal crisis specialist, that he needs to grow up and figure out his own shit.
Weeks ago, that’s exactly what I would have done.
But now I know he listens to me. He follows my directions so closely he won a damn race.
And he has so easily accepted the way I am and respected it, I can’t imagine saying no to him.
On top of all that, there’s the fact that I want to see him.
That’s why I knock on his door a few minutes later. “I heard there’s a crisis?”
There’s a mixture of genuine surprise and immense relief on Wes’s face. Something settles deep in my bones, and I know that I made the right decision.
But then I register what he’s wearing: a pair of grey sweatpants and nothing else. In fact, his hair is damp and curling, there are literal water droplets still clinging to his chest, and his warm, woodsy aroma envelopes me as I step inside.
As nice as the Martine mobile headquarters is, this room is fairly unremarkable.
Similar to a college dorm, there’s a plush futon, a small rectangular table strewn with exercise equipment, drinks, and gels, a television sitting on a chest of drawers, and an open door to a bathroom where the mirror is still fogged up.
“Hey,” Wes says as he shuts the door softly. “I didn’t actually expect you to come.”
“I would hate to be predictable. You okay?”
Wes runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t think so.” With that, this man who is usually so vibrant fades before my eyes.
“What’s going on?”
Instead of answering, Wes says, “Do you want to sit?”
It’s an obvious delay tactic, but I settle on one side of the surprisingly comfortable futon anyway. Wes eyes the spot beside me. “May I?”
My breath damn near hitches at the question. I’ve never been in a man’s personal space and still had him defer to me. It makes me wonder if I could do whatever I want in here. With his things. With him.
I nod, and only then does he sit. “My head’s a mess.”
“Are the rumors getting to you?”
He shrugs, the movement accentuating precisely how muscular his neck and traps are.
“The rumors. Freddie’s superior upgrade package.
The complete mindfuck of finding out that I met the Bugatti guy.
The uncertainty of whether my best friend and his favorite uncle are pawns or criminals.
The fact that I can’t stop thinking about you.
” His gaze meets mine and his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them: the deep gold of aged whiskey. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
I tilt my head. “Which part?”
Wes swallows. “The part about you.”
He’s right about that. I never should have lost control in D.C. I never should have started this. I never should have allowed him to come to Cape Cod, to meet my sister, to comfort me, to drive me to Boston, to introduce me to his wonderful parents.
The worst part is that none of it feels like a mistake at all. That’s why I have to crisis manage the hell out of this. Out of him.
I’m steeling myself for what I have to do when Wes whispers, “I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to touch you. Taste you.” There’s a raw quality to his words and an intense look in his eyes that lets me know how much he means it. How much he wants it.