My heart starts to race.
“And he had a foreign accent. I think it was—”
“Brazilian?”
“Yeah.” She clicks her fingers. “Do you know him?”
“Yes…I do.”
My hands are trembling, and I can’t stop staring at the letter in my hands.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna head off. Have a good weekend, Dr. Harris,” she says, retreating.
“Yeah, you, too,” I utter, distracted.
The second the door closes, I slide my finger under the fold of the envelope and open it. My mouth is dry, fingers trembling. I pull out the contents of the envelope.
Tickets. Two of them to the Prix at Silverstone next week. Full VIP weekend passes.
And a folded piece of paper.
I open it, reading the same handwriting.
TICKETS FOR JETT, AS PROMISED. I HOPE TO SEE YOU THERE, TOO.
L.
My heart free-falls through my body.
He brought the tickets here. Hand-delivered them. But didn’t ask to see me.
Of course he didn’t.
The last time we saw each other, I was ending us before we had barely begun.
Maybe he wants to see me. Hope lifts my heart even though it’s wrong to feel it because nothing has really changed. Only time between us. I was still his therapist.
I hope to see you there.
Or maybe he doesn’t want to see me, and he’s just being the good guy that I know he is and giving Jett the tickets he promised.
My heart sags back down.
I miss him though. Like I’ve never missed anyone in my life.
I need to see him. For what reason, I don’t know. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I just know I can’t go on feeling like this.
And if he doesn’t want to see me, then it gives me a foundation to start moving on from him because I’ve not found a way to move on in the last seven months.
But I guess there’s only one way to find out if he does want to see me.
So, it looks like I’m going to the British Grand Prix.
THEY’RE HERE.
She’s here…India.
It’s been seven months since I last saw her, and now, we’re in the same building.
I can feel her nearness like a vibration throughout my body, systematically making me feel alive and terrifying the fuck out of me.
She’s here. I got her here, and now, I’m afraid to face her.
A million reasons not to go see her run through my mind.
I asked the guy doing the VIP tour to text me and let me know when India and Jett arrived.
I received that text an hour ago, and I still haven’t had the nerve to go see her.
I’m telling myself that I’m needed in the garage. Truth is, it’s practice sessions, and one of the test drivers has my car out on the track.
I’m just standing here, watching the screens, as he takes my car around.
I could go see India now.
Only, I don’t know if she wants to see me. Sure, she’s here, but Jett is obsessed with Formula 1, so of course, she’d bring him.
She was the one who ended us. Well, not that there actually ever was an us, because she never gave it a chance to get that far.
Granted, after I left, I didn’t try to go back. I walked out of her house, and I shut down.
I haven’t seen or spoken to India since I left her standing in her hallway.
Afterwards, I was hurt, frustrated and seriously pissed off, and instead of going home, I went straight to Lissa headquarters, got my Formula 1 car ready, climbed in her, and took her out on our test track.
My anger at India got me past that final stage of my fear. So, I threw myself back into racing, so, I didn’t have to think about her. It only worked when I was in my car. Every other waking moment was controlled with thoughts of her.
I have everything back that I wanted after the accident. I still have my fears, but they don’t control me like they used to. But, now, without India in my life, it feels just as empty as it did before.
It’s like the universe is playing a fucking sick joke on me.
My racing was taken away from me, and then I’m given her. I get my racing back, and I lose her.
Well, not that I ever really had her.
But what I did have with her, the way I feel about India…
I can’t get over her.
I have tried. Hard. I thought that being back on the track and racing would help.
It hasn’t.
I’ve stayed out of the country, away from her. After I left for Melbourne at the start of March for the first race of the season, I just flew from race to race, not coming home, hoping the distance would help.
It didn’t.
I thought putting myself back out there with women would help.
It didn’t.
I knew I was done for when one of the hottest models around kissed me, and I felt nothing but this weird sense of guilt that I was somehow betraying India by kissing another woman.
Yes, I know how lame that sounds. But it is the way it is.
So, I’ve stayed away from all women even though I’m continuously linked with them.
If I speak to a woman and pose for a photograph with her, the next day, it will be in the press, saying that I am either dating or fucking her. The press has been aggressively intrusive in my life since I came back to the circuit. I guess it is to be expected after my accident, then absence, and now my return.
But a sick part of me hopes that India sees those pictures of me with women and that they bother her.
I hope they hurt her.
I know that makes me a bastard, but I don’t care.
Now, I am back for Silverstone, and I thought I would be okay with being here, in the same country as her.
But what do I do?
A few days after I’ve been back, I find myself driving to her office and hand-delivering the tickets for the Prix that I promised to Jett last year, in the half hope that I might see India.
But I didn’t see her.
It took all of my strength just to walk into her office, and I was too chicken to ask to see her, so, I just left the tickets with her receptionist, and ran out of there like the little pussy I am.
God, I am such a fucking loser.
I just need to man the fuck up and face her. She has probably moved on by now anyway.
The thought of her with another man makes rage flood my veins. I clench my fists, gritting my jaw.
I just need to see her. I need to know either way.
Seeing her will either help me move on or make me feel worse, if that is possible. But I need to do something because, clearly, what I have been doing for the last seven months isn’t working.
The thing is, I am pretty sure I’m in love with her.
I always thought that love was something that wouldn’t ever happen to me. Sure, I’ve had girlfriends, who I cared for, but love…not even close. Not once.
Not until her.
And that has to mean something, right? I can’t be alone in the way I feel. She has to feel it too. Feel something for me at least.
If I see her, then, I’ll know if she still feels something for me.
The barrier with India was never the way she felt for me. It was always about her goddamn ethics.
Yeah, well, I haven’t been her patient for seven months now. And I know what she said about time not mattering, but it does.
Time gives clarity and perspective.
I just have to hope that time and space has given her just that and that she realizes she actually wants me.
“And he had a foreign accent. I think it was—”
“Brazilian?”
“Yeah.” She clicks her fingers. “Do you know him?”
“Yes…I do.”
My hands are trembling, and I can’t stop staring at the letter in my hands.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna head off. Have a good weekend, Dr. Harris,” she says, retreating.
“Yeah, you, too,” I utter, distracted.
The second the door closes, I slide my finger under the fold of the envelope and open it. My mouth is dry, fingers trembling. I pull out the contents of the envelope.
Tickets. Two of them to the Prix at Silverstone next week. Full VIP weekend passes.
And a folded piece of paper.
I open it, reading the same handwriting.
TICKETS FOR JETT, AS PROMISED. I HOPE TO SEE YOU THERE, TOO.
L.
My heart free-falls through my body.
He brought the tickets here. Hand-delivered them. But didn’t ask to see me.
Of course he didn’t.
The last time we saw each other, I was ending us before we had barely begun.
Maybe he wants to see me. Hope lifts my heart even though it’s wrong to feel it because nothing has really changed. Only time between us. I was still his therapist.
I hope to see you there.
Or maybe he doesn’t want to see me, and he’s just being the good guy that I know he is and giving Jett the tickets he promised.
My heart sags back down.
I miss him though. Like I’ve never missed anyone in my life.
I need to see him. For what reason, I don’t know. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I just know I can’t go on feeling like this.
And if he doesn’t want to see me, then it gives me a foundation to start moving on from him because I’ve not found a way to move on in the last seven months.
But I guess there’s only one way to find out if he does want to see me.
So, it looks like I’m going to the British Grand Prix.
THEY’RE HERE.
She’s here…India.
It’s been seven months since I last saw her, and now, we’re in the same building.
I can feel her nearness like a vibration throughout my body, systematically making me feel alive and terrifying the fuck out of me.
She’s here. I got her here, and now, I’m afraid to face her.
A million reasons not to go see her run through my mind.
I asked the guy doing the VIP tour to text me and let me know when India and Jett arrived.
I received that text an hour ago, and I still haven’t had the nerve to go see her.
I’m telling myself that I’m needed in the garage. Truth is, it’s practice sessions, and one of the test drivers has my car out on the track.
I’m just standing here, watching the screens, as he takes my car around.
I could go see India now.
Only, I don’t know if she wants to see me. Sure, she’s here, but Jett is obsessed with Formula 1, so of course, she’d bring him.
She was the one who ended us. Well, not that there actually ever was an us, because she never gave it a chance to get that far.
Granted, after I left, I didn’t try to go back. I walked out of her house, and I shut down.
I haven’t seen or spoken to India since I left her standing in her hallway.
Afterwards, I was hurt, frustrated and seriously pissed off, and instead of going home, I went straight to Lissa headquarters, got my Formula 1 car ready, climbed in her, and took her out on our test track.
My anger at India got me past that final stage of my fear. So, I threw myself back into racing, so, I didn’t have to think about her. It only worked when I was in my car. Every other waking moment was controlled with thoughts of her.
I have everything back that I wanted after the accident. I still have my fears, but they don’t control me like they used to. But, now, without India in my life, it feels just as empty as it did before.
It’s like the universe is playing a fucking sick joke on me.
My racing was taken away from me, and then I’m given her. I get my racing back, and I lose her.
Well, not that I ever really had her.
But what I did have with her, the way I feel about India…
I can’t get over her.
I have tried. Hard. I thought that being back on the track and racing would help.
It hasn’t.
I’ve stayed out of the country, away from her. After I left for Melbourne at the start of March for the first race of the season, I just flew from race to race, not coming home, hoping the distance would help.
It didn’t.
I thought putting myself back out there with women would help.
It didn’t.
I knew I was done for when one of the hottest models around kissed me, and I felt nothing but this weird sense of guilt that I was somehow betraying India by kissing another woman.
Yes, I know how lame that sounds. But it is the way it is.
So, I’ve stayed away from all women even though I’m continuously linked with them.
If I speak to a woman and pose for a photograph with her, the next day, it will be in the press, saying that I am either dating or fucking her. The press has been aggressively intrusive in my life since I came back to the circuit. I guess it is to be expected after my accident, then absence, and now my return.
But a sick part of me hopes that India sees those pictures of me with women and that they bother her.
I hope they hurt her.
I know that makes me a bastard, but I don’t care.
Now, I am back for Silverstone, and I thought I would be okay with being here, in the same country as her.
But what do I do?
A few days after I’ve been back, I find myself driving to her office and hand-delivering the tickets for the Prix that I promised to Jett last year, in the half hope that I might see India.
But I didn’t see her.
It took all of my strength just to walk into her office, and I was too chicken to ask to see her, so, I just left the tickets with her receptionist, and ran out of there like the little pussy I am.
God, I am such a fucking loser.
I just need to man the fuck up and face her. She has probably moved on by now anyway.
The thought of her with another man makes rage flood my veins. I clench my fists, gritting my jaw.
I just need to see her. I need to know either way.
Seeing her will either help me move on or make me feel worse, if that is possible. But I need to do something because, clearly, what I have been doing for the last seven months isn’t working.
The thing is, I am pretty sure I’m in love with her.
I always thought that love was something that wouldn’t ever happen to me. Sure, I’ve had girlfriends, who I cared for, but love…not even close. Not once.
Not until her.
And that has to mean something, right? I can’t be alone in the way I feel. She has to feel it too. Feel something for me at least.
If I see her, then, I’ll know if she still feels something for me.
The barrier with India was never the way she felt for me. It was always about her goddamn ethics.
Yeah, well, I haven’t been her patient for seven months now. And I know what she said about time not mattering, but it does.
Time gives clarity and perspective.
I just have to hope that time and space has given her just that and that she realizes she actually wants me.
