Thefirstraceofthe season is in Bahrain.
Gillian and I arrived a couple of hours ago, along with a few other people like the camerawoman, Fallon, and Gillian’s makeup artist, Liz. Luckily, the rooms are small enough so everyone got their own. It allows my anxiety to take a breather instead of overthinking what it would mean to sleep in the same room as three other people I hardly know. They all seem kind and welcoming, but it doesn’t mean that my overthinking simply shuts off.
My anxiety is an expert at coming up with every worst possible scenario only to terrify me with it. It makes life ridiculously difficult more times than not. Every decision I make is a battle in my mind, tearing me in two different directions: yes and no. Do it and don’t do it. Stay and run. It’s exhausting, I won’t lie, but eventually, I win those fights with my head, too. All it takes is patience, resilience, and determination. I don’t have all or any of these things every single day, but I try my best, and that’s good enough for me.
I’m sitting on the bed, a towel wrapped around my body when I see a message light up my phone. This is the first time I’ve traveled anywhere without Nova or Mama, and they’ve been texting non-stop to check on me. They’re both worried about this huge step that I took, especially because I am terrified of flying, and being on my own isn’t my favorite thing either, but I’m so proud of myself for the way I’ve handled things so far.
For people without anxiety, it wouldn’t seem like a big feat to get on a plane and not have an anxiety attack and completely break down, but for me? For me, it’s a huge step. It’s pure, liquid motivation, too, making me feel like I can do this.
Gillian gave me a couple of articles to edit before tomorrow. He likes the way I edit them, so he’s been giving me more and more over the past few weeks I’ve been atGriffin Sports. I hate the work. It’s tedious and not at all what I thought I was signing up for when I took this job. I thought I’d be doing what Mrs. Lu and Ms. Martin said I’d do: write my own articles, but Gillian treats me more like an assistant. If I hadn’t been an assistant for three years during my internships at university, I probably wouldn’t mind as much. Neither would I mind if it wasn’t for my bosses telling me how different this job would be.
My screen lights up with another message, this one from a very handsome F1 driver I’ve been doing my best to keep out of my head. It was working, somewhat, but it doesn’t help when he texts me and reminds me how sweet he is.
Adrian: Welcome to Bahrain. I hope we can spend some time together, maybe I can even give you a French lesson.
I let out a laugh before typing.
Nevaeh: You should focus on the race, not on teaching me French. But thank you for the offer.
Adrian: Why can’t I do both? You can pay me with those gorgeous smiles of yours.
Nevaeh: Smiles? Plural?
Adrian: Yes, the happy one where you show teeth and the shy one where you don’t. Either is an acceptable payment.
That damn Adrian.
I smile to myself. We may not be able to be anything but friends, but that’s alright with me.
No one gets hurt this way.
Nevaeh: Time and place?
I should let him concentrate on the weekend, but the selfish part inside of me wants to take advantage of his offer and see him.
Adrian: Wednesday, 20:00. My hotel? Or yours, wherever you’re more comfortable. I will arrange for dinner.
Why?I’ve been asking myself that question a lot since I met Adrian. Why is he such a gentleman? Why is he so infatuated with me? Why did he come into my life at the worst time, when everything doesn’t make sense? The list goes on, but these are some of the top ones I can’t stop from swirling around in my head.
After giving the pillow on my bed a good, frustrated scream, I tell him I will go to his hotel. It’s most likely a lot nicer than my little room. I also feel better about meeting him on Wednesday since Thursdays are for fan meet-and-greets, track walks, and other responsibilities that don’t include driving the car yet. Today is only Monday, which means I’ll have two days to overthink and try not to change my mind.
I want to be friends with him.
I like the way he makes me feel, heard and understood instead of filled with pain, hurt, and regret.
My phone rings as an incoming call makes it vibrate on my thigh. It saysUnknownas the caller ID, but I hit Answer anyway.
“Hello?” I ask, curiosity now spreading all the way into my fingertips, making them tingle.
“Hi, Nevaeh, this is Valentina Romana. I’m sorry if this is weird, but I got your number from my brother. I’m heading to the Bahrain National Museum and was wondering if you’d like to join me. Gabriel and Adrian don’t want to go. I don’t know if you’re busy, or even want to. You can of course say no. Oh man, I’m rambling, I’m sorry,” Valentina says and lets out a laugh, which makes me smile.
I can’t remember the last time I went on a friend-date with someone, apart from Adrian’s and mine almost two weeks ago. The only real friend I had growing up was Lincoln and the other people I was “friends” with, well, it didn’t work out.
“I would love to go with you, and, no, I’m not busy. I have the day off to do a bit of sightseeing, actually,” I reply while getting up and walking toward my suitcase to take out my blue gypsy skirt and a matching white long-sleeve.
“Great! I will meet you at your hotel in an hour,” she says, so I give her the address.
We hang up, and I get ready for my friend-date with one of the women I admire the most in the world. I never, ever thought I might become friends with Valentina Romana, the queen of Formula One.
