33. Elizabeth
I’m not wrong about the press.
They’re waiting outside the hotel, shouting questions as Wes and I leave hand-in-hand and duck into the awaiting car.
They’re gathered outside of the paddock entrance so they can document Wes’s every moment.
They’re smoking cigarettes and nursing to-go cups of coffee when I get in a cab after landing at JFK.
The article is both better and worse than I thought it would be.
While the story itself is a fictionalized and surprisingly romanticized version of our relationship, it goes a step beyond what I thought it would.
I expected the photos from around the paddocks and garages we’ve both been in—but not the candids of us from the Miami charity event and the conference in D.C.
, or the video of us running together in Cape Cod, or the shot of me stepping into Wes’s RV.
But the image that rocked me most is the one of me alone in New York, a yellow circle imposed over the Red Sox hat I’m wearing—and a line connecting it to a photo of Wes wearing the same hat.
It never occurred to me that people would recognize me on the street. It was a rookie mistake—one I’m embarrassed I didn’t see coming.
Now, at least, I know better. I’m prepared to see photographers waiting outside my apartment building. I’m aware that strangers will do double-takes, then whip out their phones to document the hummus I’m picking up at Trader Joe’s or my coffee order from the street cart near the office.
And I’m prepared for it to be a thousand times worse when Wes arrives tomorrow.
After finishing second in Budapest, he wanted to come here immediately—but then his agent reminded him that he needed to be in London to shoot a new ad campaign for a fitness brand.
Unsurprisingly, the paparazzi are having a field day since the campaign features him and the handsome tennis player who just won Wimbledon.
But walking past newsstands that feature photos of Wes and the toned tennis god is a cake walk when compared to the silence from my family.
I messaged our group chat to let them know that Wes and I are together, and to give them a heads up about the story. I told them I’d be happy to answer any questions and apologized for the disruption it would bring to their lives.
Not a single one of them has responded. I’m sure my parents are horrified and that Todd is delighting in the irony that the crisis specialist who manipulates the media is now being manipulated by the media. But it’s the continued silence from Jane that cuts deepest.
I thought she’d respond. I’ve wondered if I should message her separately. But what am I supposed to say?
I’ve brooded over this with both Wes and Chalondra—whose message to me on Thursday morning was, you majestic bitch, I can’t even be mad you didn’t tell me because GOOD FOR YOU—but I still don’t know what to do.
Fortunately, there have also been pleasant surprises in the weird aftermath of being a tabloid story.
Rose Hayashi and Gabrielle Duval-Lefevre, whose partners are both F1 drivers, have reached out to offer their congratulations on the relationship, condolences about The Drift’s invasion of our privacy, and many genuinely great memes.
Then there’s Rebecca, Wes’s mom. She sent me a long, lovely message and has been checking in every day.
Perhaps the most surprising part is that when I sat down with Clint on Monday, I got two words into the speech I’d prepared about why he shouldn’t pull me off the account when he said, “Here’s the deal: I’ve kept enough tabs on this situation to know that you and Alice Abrams are working on something big.
I’m not about to get in the way.” I nearly wept.
After I called Alice with my epiphany that Stas and his uncle aren’t behind an criminal organization, but pawns on a chess board Elio Rocca might be controlling, she started connecting dots out loud.
Like how Elio made his fortune as a vintage car dealer (a fact that’s easy to discover on the internet) to a largely Russian clientele (a fact that is nowhere to be found on the internet ).
Like how she was willing to bet a Russian man who worked as a luxury importer crossed paths with Elio Rocca.
Like how a charming Italian man with expensive suits and a father with a racing pedigree, would have been a hell of a contact for someone whose nephew’s dream was to race in F1.
So I told her to go do her thing.
Once my post-work Pilates class wraps, I pick up a salad and pop my earbuds in, queuing up a playlist for the walk to my apartment.
I don’t think twice when I turn off a well-lit avenue and onto my darker, less populated street.
I don’t hear the whooshing slide of the black van door.
I don’t scream when a man’s thick hand is placed over my mouth and nose, or when a meaty arm holds me against a broad chest.
I don’t move when the sharp sting of a syringe bites into my upper arm.
And there’s nothing I can do when a cloudy darkness overwhelms me.