39. Elizabeth
After two more interview-heavy days with law enforcement, intelligence agencies, and no fewer than four embassies, Wes, Stas, and I are finally free to leave Italy.
My parting gift to Stas before he gets on a plane to visit his parents is Alice Abrams’s phone number along with strict instructions to give her an exclusive interview. And when Wes looks at me, and asks, “Where to?”, it’s clear that no matter what my answer is, he’ll be right there beside me.
I consider going back to New York, but then Jane says, “Can I make a suggestion?” Considering all I’ve wanted for years is to spend time with her and up until very recently was convinced she had cut me out of her life for good, I’m not going to tell her no.
I ready myself for her to propose Houston—she has been away from her family for nearly a week, after all—and am gobsmacked when an entirely different locale comes out of her mouth.
And that’s how we all end up in Wes’s light-filled penthouse in Monaco. It’s tastefully decorated in earthy greens and warm browns, and I only tease him a little about the entire room dedicated to his racing trophies, favorite helmets, and professional photos.
After we’ve had the official tour, he gives me a meaningful look, announces that he’s going sailing with a couple other drivers, plants a kiss on my lips, and whispers “I won’t come back until you message to say that you and Jane have talked everything out.
I’ll sleep on the boat if you need me to. ”
I didn’t have to say a word and he knew exactly what I needed: time alone with Jane. And just like in Cape Code, he’s taken it upon himself to make it happen.
The fact that I tried to convince myself Wes Grant is the last man I should be with is baffling now.
“Girl’s day?” Jane asks when it’s just us.
“At long last,” I say, opening the refrigerator only to find bottled water and protein shakes. “We definitely need to go on a supply run.”
We head to a nearby market and spend a solid hour ogling the gorgeous produce before moseying back to Wes’s place. As I pour glasses of rosé and Jane drizzles honey over Comte, she says, “Well, it’s not Martha’s Vineyard, but I guess Monaco will do for our sister’s trip.”
I don’t hesitate to seize the moment. “I for one think it’s time for some real girl talk.”
Though I have been incredibly busy the past few days, I still noticed that though Jane is in constant contact with our mother and video chats with her kids multiple times a day, she hasn’t spoken with—or of—her husband at all.
“You mean what’s going on with me and Todd?”
“Yeah. That.”
She looks out at the stunning view from the balcony and takes a deep breath. When she turns back, there are tears spilling down her cheeks. “You were right.”
It’s as if my heart is in a vice. Despite loathing Todd, I hoped I was wrong about him. I hoped that Jane was blissfully happy, that I had completely misread everything, and that, even if it meant she and I would never be close again, she was loved in the way that inspires sonnets.
But I wasn’t wrong. And for once, I feel awful for being right.
I take my sister’s hand. “I’m so, so sorry, Jane.”
“You said even satisfied men cheat,” she says quietly.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about that. Todd sometimes didn’t come home from work until nearly midnight.
And when he was home, he was always distracted.
A few weeks ago, he got in at a normal time.
I made his favorite dinner and the girls were so excited to tell him about their day—Emma did her first jump at horseback riding lessons and Ellie wanted to read him the new story she wrote—and he would not put his phone down.
He barely even ate. After I put the kids to bed, I told him we needed to talk.
He said he was too exhausted.” She shakes her head, as if she still can’t believe it.
“That was the last straw for me. I started digging into his credit card statements. There were all these charges for expensive meals, hotel rooms, flowers. So I confronted him. He didn’t deny it. ”
“I’m going to kill him.”
Jane gives me a watery smile. “I kicked him out. He’s tried to apologize over and over, but he’s not actually sorry. He’s just sorry he got caught.” She drains her glass of rosé. “I’ve retained a divorce attorney. God, just saying that out loud seems so surreal.”
“A good one?”
“She’s a shark. I have a feeling that once Todd realizes he can’t sweet-talk his way back into our marriage, things will get ugly.”
Her words are edged with bitterness, and I hate this for her, even though I know it’s for the best. “Is there anything I can do?”
She looks out at the ocean. “Don’t break up with Wes. I could get used to this lifestyle.”
I laugh and refill her glass.
“Thanks,” she says, taking a small sip. “When I got your message about that tabloid story, I wanted to call you immediately. But I was still feeling so raw. I was angry that you were right. But I was angrier at myself. I had been too trusting and so stupid. I allowed our relationship to suffer and then hurt you so badly. And for what? My cheating husband?”
“Jane, it’s okay,” I say. “I’m not angry. I hate that I was right.”
Her eyes fill with tears again. “I really did love him. But I think I loved who he once was, rather than who he is now.” She bites her lip and lets the tears fall.
“When we first met, I couldn’t keep up in class.
I was failing, Lizzy. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I had to make a change.
Todd helped me understand that it was possible to love science and choose a softer life.
” She sniffs, then brushes a lingering tear away.
“He gave me that. And I think I’ll always be grateful for it. ”
I blink, and a tear falls down my own cheek. I didn’t know any of this. I didn’t realize she was stressed and paralyzed at the thought of change. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jane gives me a pointed look. “You? My ambitious, focused sister who has never failed at anything?”
I flush.
She shakes her head. “I was already ashamed and heartbroken that I was giving up my lifelong dream. I didn’t know how to tell you that it was too hard and that I needed to find something that didn’t make me feel like a failure every single day.”
I blow out a heavy breath. She’s right. I would have tried to motivate her. I would’ve given her pep talks about studying more, and that would have only made her feel worse. “I’m sorry you couldn’t confide in me.”
“I should have,” she says. “So I’m sorry, too. I hope we can repair things between us.”
“Of course,” I say immediately. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”
“I just want you to be my sister,” she says. “And to maybe let me post photos of you and Wes so I can get a sweet, sweet follower bump.”
“I think I can cheers to that,” I say, holding up my glass.
When she clinks hers against mine, it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
A few days later, Jane returns to Houston, leaving me with a schedule that is completely clear for the first time in years. There isn’t a crisis to focus on or a to-do list filled with items ready to be crossed off.
So I fill my days and nights with Wes.
We wake up slowly and linger in the sheets, in the soft sunlight, in each other. We have leisurely breakfasts followed by long strolls.
One morning, we walk to an outdoor market and mosey through the rows of vendors. I stop to buy a punnet of strawberries, and when I look over my shoulder at Wes, his expression is serious.
“What?” I ask.
”I want to do this forever.”
“Buy produce at the market?”
He smiles and slips an arm around my waist, pulling me closer. “Buy produce at the market with you. I love you, Elizabeth. So much.”
The warmth that spreads through my chest feels as if I’ve just stepped inside a perfect beam of sunlight.
Though we both acknowledged this back in Hungary, we haven’t talked about it since.
But I feel it when he touches me. I see it when he looks at me.
I watch it in motion every morning when he brings me a perfectly made cup of coffee.
And yet, hearing him say the words out loud is more impactful than I realized it would be.
Because something I believed has just become something I know. “I love you, too. So much.”
He kisses me deeply, right there in the middle of the market, and then whispers, “Please tell me I can take you home and directly to bed.”
As if I would ever deny him that.
In the days that follow, we picnic in parks, go on afternoon drives along the coast, explore medieval towns that feel like fairytales, and swing by vineyards so picturesque it seems you stepped into a painting.
We spend our time laughing and playfully bickering and learning all the intimate little quirks that only come with constant contact.
“We’ve done this whole relationship backwards,” Wes says one night as we’re settling into bed. “I’m pretty sure most people fall in love after they’ve gone on daytrips and dinner dates.”
“Sounds boring,” I quip. “Surely mutual antagonism, mutual bedroom preferences, and being mutually forced into bringing down a crime syndicate are the real tests of true love.”
“True love?” Wes asks. “Why Jacobs, that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” He steals a kiss, looking very pleased with himself.
I never knew this kind of relationship was something I could want. But now I can’t imagine not wanting it. The thought of being anywhere else—being without him—is unfathomable.
When Clint calls me on a Thursday, I answer with, “I’m still on leave.”
“Yes, well, I thought you’d want to know you’re not a full-time WAG quite yet,” my boss says. “Martine’s keeping you on through the end of the season.”
Though it’s a surprise, it’s not one I’m mad about. Logically, I know it’s smart of them to keep me in case of fall-out. And personally, I’m downright delighted that I won’t have to go back to New York yet.
For the rest of my vacation, I don’t think much about that conversation, let alone keep up with the news or social media.
But when Wes and I arrive in the Netherlands for the Dutch Grand Prix on a Wednesday at the end of August, it becomes very clear, very quickly that we are still extremely big news.
I guess that’s what happens when your relationship announcement is followed by the story of how an organized crime boss moonlighting as an F1 team principal kidnapped you to blackmail your boyfriend into being involved in the assassination attempt of a king who was about to dismantle his criminal enterprise.
It does sound rather dramatic when you put it like that.
On Friday, David messages me at 6:48am and tells me to get to the motorhome ASAP.
I walk in twenty minutes later and Sarah doesn’t even have to tell me which conference room to go to since it’s the one where men are arguing loudly.
After stepping inside, I do the only useful thing my dad taught me: whistle.
The sound pierces through the voices and all three men go quiet, turning in tandem to look at me.
“Gentlemen,” I say primly. “What’s the issue?”
“Freddie has norovirus,” David says, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.
Karma is truly a beautiful thing.
“The doctors say there’s no way he’ll be able to drive this weekend,” Albrecht says, sounding as annoyed as he looks. “How has modern medicine not cured this yet.”
A joke about this team’s recent history with designer drugs floats through my mind, but I know better than to say it out loud.
“These things happen,” Baz says before taking a long drink of his coffee. “And I’ve already gotten us an exemption to the four driver rule due to our extenuating circumstances this year.”
It’s then that I realize what Freddie having norovirus actually means. “Oh my God, Lu gets to race!”
“Told you,” David says to Albrecht. “If we don’t put Lu in that car, the backlash is going to be out of this world.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, my voice louder than I meant for it to be. I suppose I now understand why there was yelling.
“It’s not that I don’t want Lu in the car,” Albrecht says calmly. “It’s that I don’t think we should introduce a rookie driver at a critical point in the season when we have another option.”
David pulls out the chair next to him and I sink into it. “Who?”
Albrecht lets the moment stretch before he says, “Stas.”
Oh.
While it would be amazing to for Lu to race this weekend, I can’t deny that a choice between the reigning world champion and a reserve driver is an easy one.
I look at Baz. “Is Stas actually an option?”
“No,” he says immediately. “He will be coming back to the team—just not yet. Besides, even if he were willing to get in the car, he wouldn’t get here until after FP1.”
“Lu can fill in for FP1,” Albrecht says. “That isn’t an issue.”
Baz shakes his head. “I don’t want Stas in the car before he’s completely ready—mentally, physically, emotionally, fucking spiritually. He went through some real shit, Albrecht, and I get that you think world champions are wired differently—”
“They are,” Albrecht says. “He was going through real shit when he won world championships. Now that the real shit is over, it should be easy, no?”
“No,” Baz, David, and I say in unison.
Albrecht makes a frustrated noise, and I decide to put an end to this once and for all. I call Stas Dubinsky.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” he says on the second ring, sounding incredibly awake and not at all surprised to hear from me. It almost makes me wonder if this gamble is about to bite me in the ass—if perhaps he already knows Freddie is currently puking his guts up, highly contagious, and unable to drive.
“Hi, Stas,” I say, giving the men in the room a pointed look. “Hypothetically speaking, if you were asked to race this weekend, would you do it?”
“No. I will let Baz know when I’m ready.”
“Great,” I say. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Stas.”
He lets out a low laugh. “Good luck, Elizabeth. Please tell them I am excited to watch Lu on the track.”
“I will. Talk soon.”
I don’t hold back my smile when I tell them all exactly what Stas Dubinsky, F1 World Champion, said.
On Sunday, Luísa Lopez-Walker makes history.
And when she finishes the race without incident and in 7th place, bringing in six important points for Martine, she shows the entire world that women deserve a place in this sport.