“I don’t dispute it.” His tone is heartbreakingly impassive. Why is he suddenly retreating like this?
“What do you actually want from me?” I force the question out. I know it’s a dramatic move, but I’m feeling stung and—to be honest—not particularly emotionally safe. I’m not a big wielder of ultimatums, but my phrasing now feels perilously close. “Something real? Just a repeat of that night in Abu Dhabi? Or maybe a ‘friend in the press’?”
I expect him to look at me—to be shocked, offended, to deny it. To soften and usher us back onto the path I thought we were on when I knocked at the door of his suite, just minutes ago. But his gaze remains anchored to the coffee table. I allow an extra few seconds, waiting for him to say something.
Spurred by a heartache colored with embarrassment, I manage, “I think maybe this—you, me, all of it—was a bad idea. I do want you. But I want a lot of things that aren’t good for me. I want to eat ice cream instead of broccoli. I want to sleep in instead of working out. With those things, I exert the discipline. But I don’t have self-control around you.”
He meets my eyes, and he looks ruined. I suppress the impulse to walk it all back, to feel sorrier for him than I do for myself right now.
“Truth to tell,” he murmurs wearily, “the power you have over me is daunting as well. The way it erodes my will is disturbing.”
Realization crystalizes in me before melting into a slurry of despair:This is not going to work. Attraction has blinded us both.
For months, I’ve taken our red flags and folded them into swans, like those cloth napkins at fancy restaurants.
“There’s nothing about us being together that makes sense,” Istate with finality, hoping it might rattle him and spur some kind of declaration.
A long silence follows.
Where are the comforting magic words to pull this breakup back from the edge of the cliff and make me believe in something that, deep down, maybe I shouldn’t?
Klaus considers what I’ve said for a long time, and my stomach flip-flops. I want him to refute my harsh verdict, but… no such luck. Instead, he nods.
Why are you nodding? Fight me on this, dammit!
The way he leans back against the sofa cushions with a sigh, rubbing his face with both hands, tells me everything. It’s all in what hecan’tsay.
“Fine, then.” My voice is little more than a ragged whisper, and I clear my throat. “Let’s cut our losses. This dance we’ve been doing is the emotional equivalent of”—I flash a bitter smile, remembering the moment in Abu Dhabi when I flung those crumpled euros at him—“throwing good money after bad.”
I stand and pick up my phone and purse. On my way to the door, I both fear and hope he’ll speak up. I pull the door shut slowly, quietly, so I’ll hear him if he calls me back at the last second. But it doesn’t happen.
By the time I’m in my own room and stepping into a searingly hot shower—still wearing the dress Klaus once said he loved; the silk wilting, sodden, ruined—I’ve committed myself to the task of picking out the stitches that man has set into my heart.
9
ABU DHABI
SIX MONTHS LATER
KLAUS
The banquet room is so long, it may as well be a battlefield. In a sense, it is. Metaphoric ruins are strewn across it between Natalia and me—wreckage and churned earth where we fought for connection this year and failed.
I can’t take my eyes off her tonight. She’s in a red dress that hugs her curves and flares out to dance around her thighs in taunting challenge like a matador’s cape. The dress’s plunging neckline frames a gold necklace shaped like delicate tree branches studded with tiny red stones. I can’t help wondering if it was a gift from someone—I’ve never seen it before.
The emerald heart pendant would have been lovely with her outfit, echoing the sweetheart curve of the bodice, but it was delivered back to me months ago by Phaedra, after the Austrian Grand Prix. She and Talia had mended their fences, and Phaedra wasn’t shy about partially blaming me for their months-long rift.
I don’t want this back, I tried telling Phaedra.Please tell her to keep it.
She narrowed her flashing green eyes at me and lifted the little velvet box to drop it from a great height, making me scramble to catch it.
Yeah, I’m not playing some high school bullshit game with you two, she told me.You fucked up, and that’s your problem. Getting in the middle of this shit was what made Nat and me not talk for months. So suck it up and hand it back to her yourself if you want. I’m done.
I’ve ferried the cursed necklace on and off a dozen flights since then, both reluctant to go to Natalia and urge her to keep it—and pleading for her to forgive me for my stubbornness and cowardice that night in Montréal—and reluctant to let the matter die entirely by leaving the necklace at home. I suppose I’ve continued to carry it like some talisman that might bring her back to me.
But tonight I see clearly that she’s moved on. One of her hands balances a plate of food, the other wields a fork. Her focus is all on her conversational partner, an F1 commentator near my age who seems to be putting every ounce of his Scots charm into their tête-à-tête.
The banquet celebrating the end of the nine-month racing season was already set: food and wine, music and décor sorted. But when Cosmin secured his first win in the final race, the bar was raised.
