It takes me a day to work up the nerve to log in to my Instagram account. I haven’t been in it for months. I have to download the app on my phone again and reset my forgotten password. The moment I log in, I’m hit with that stupid little red number on the top right-hand corner telling me I have sixty-six new messages. I stare at the number with my gut twisted into knots for ten minutes before I finally click on it.
All the messages are months old, every last one of them. I click through them slowly. Most of them are from other drivers or people involved in F2, polite messages saying they hope my recovery is going well. One of my exes sent me a weird, rambling message about how the crash “made her realize how much she needed me,” and how she always thought fate would bring us back together, and to message her so we could meet up. I click on her profile and see about fifty pictures of her with some muscular guy I vaguely recognize as an Olympic skier. I snort. I guess fate took her in a different direction when I didn’t message her back.
I get to the end of the messages, trying not to be disappointed that none of them are from Travis. Slowly, I type in his handle and click on his profile. There are still only three pictures, and he’s only following about fifty people. I go through every single one of them, because I’m just that pathetic, but they’re all pretty standard, other F1 drivers and engineers and team accounts. The only one that gives me pause is a private account, @notrlyahunter, but when I zoom in on the profile pic, I could swear that’s Heather with her arm around a handsome blond guy. My spirits lift a little bit when I find the same blond guy in a few pictures on Heather’s account. I bet that’s her real boyfriend.
I go downstairs and get two beers from the fridge, trying to be quiet so my parents don’t hear, like I’m a teenager again. I know it’s childish, but I can’t answer another question about business school. I cracked and told my parents I got into a few, and now they won’t stop asking which one I’ve chosen.
I down the first beer in about five minutes. I think this will be easier if I’m slightly tipsy, and ever since my accident I have the alcohol tolerance of a tiny child. Amanda and I have had several lengthy, exhausting talks about my previous tendency to use alcohol to stifle unwanted emotions, but I’m hoping she’ll let it slide just this once. I crack open the second beer, log in to Instagram on my laptop, and open up my messages. I type in Travis’ handle, open a direct message, and then I just sit there, staring at the screen.
Honestly, he probably won’t even see whatever I send. He isn’t following me, and he’s got 4.6 million followers and a verified account. I’m sure whatever I send will go straight into the “creepy unsolicited fan mail” folder.
But it’s not like I have any other options.
I start typing, then immediately delete what I’ve written. One hour passes, then two. I check my e-mail. Another rejection from an F3 team. They’re so flattered I thought of them, but no. They don’t have a spot for a washed-up loser. I drink a third beer. Draft another ten messages to Travis.
Hey. You finally caved and got Instagram?
How’s it going?
Congrats on the championship. How’s the break going?
Did you really get Instagram? Or did the team set this up for you? lol
I AM A FUCKING IDIOT.
I bang my head against my desk. All of these are terrible, though at least the last one is true.
I open my phone and type in the first six digits of Travis’ phone number. I’m sure those are right. It’s the last four numbers I can’t figure out. 4796? 4776? There was definitely a four and a seven.
And a nine, I think.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I slam my laptop closed. I don’t want to send him an Instagram message that he’ll never see. It’s too hard, and I’m too bad with words. If I could see him, I probably wouldn’t even need to say anything. He would just look at me and then let out a long, heavy breath and pull me into his arms. I can imagine it so clearly, I can practically feel his warmth against me. I can remember what his skin smelled like, that British brand of soap I can’t remember the name of.
I open my laptop again and type “Travis Keeping manager London” into Google. Maybe I can find a number for his manager’s office, and somehow get his number from them.
I don’t have any luck. The only thing that comes up are press articles. “Keeping’s Manager Colt Drops Hints About Extended Harper Contract” and “Aaron Colt, Manager of Formula 1 Racers Such as Travis Keeping and Peyton Small, Signs New IndyCar Talent.”
I click through the articles aimlessly, until my finger freezes over one from some scammy-looking tabloid site calledStarWatch. It was posted a day ago. The headline reads “Formula 1 Star Travis Keeping Walks Dog Near London Home.”
There’s a picture of him walking the black dog from his Instagram. He has a gray sweater on, and black jeans I’ve never seen him wear, and he’s got a coffee in one hand and his dog’s leash in the other.
Jesus, he looks so fucking good.
I stare at the picture longer than I’m proud of. I keep noticing little details. He’s got a thin rope bracelet on his right wrist that I’ve never seen before. His sneakers are different, too. And his hair is a little bit longer than the last time I saw him. It suits him really well like that.
His body is insane. It must be freezing in London—everyone in the back of the picture is wearing jackets and gloves—but he only has a sweater on, and his right sleeve is shoved up past his elbow, revealing the strong lines of his forearm. And I don’t know if it’s because I know what he looks like naked, but I swear I can see the outline of his abs through his sweater.
Fuck. My eyes travel up and down his frame. He really could be a model. And he has no idea how hot he is, which of course makes him a hundred times hotter.
I run my thumb absently over my beer and shift on my chair. I don’t want to send Travis an Instagram message. I want to see him. I want to feel his skin on mine.
My eyes move to the photo’s timestamp. It was taken two days ago.
Two days ago, Travis was in London.
My heart starts beating faster. I’m half hard and three-quarters drunk, and I open Expedia without letting myself stop to think about it. Albuquerque is stupidly inconvenient. The shortest last-minute trip to London costs two thousand dollars and takes eighteen hours, with two stops.
