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.
A guy can hope, right?
I know where she’ll be right now—at the talk that Quinn Moore is giving. Quinn is a retired racing driver. As part of the tour, a revered driver gives VIPs a talk about Formula 1. Jett will love it.
Yes, I know the itinerary of the day. My loser self knows no bounds.
I was always going to see her, no matter how much I had been delaying.
Backing away from the screens where I’ve been watching my test driver take my car around the track, I tell Patrick, one of my guys, “I’ll be back in ten.”
Then, I head out of the garage, my destination India.
JETT AND I ARE HERE AT SILVERSTONE. We arrived an hour ago. As we found out on arrival, part of the VIP ticket that Leandro sent includes a speech from some retired driver I’d never heard of before, a tour around the garages, watching the practice sessions, and then dinner. We’ll come back tomorrow for qualifying sessions. Then, Sunday is race day.
And I’m glad I had the forethought to book a hotel room for Jett and me to save me from driving the three-hour round-trip for the next three days.
I can relax and enjoy some time with my boy and not worry about Leandro Silva.
Well, I’m going to worry about him, only a little bit.
The thought of seeing him again makes my stomach roil with nerves.
I’m sure he’ll be busy with prepping for qualifying tomorrow, so maybe I won’t see him at all. I ignore the little stab in my heart that I feel at that thought.
I glance at Jett as the speaker yammers on about things I have no clue about. Jett looks enthralled and happy, and that’s what counts. He was beyond excited when I told him that Leandro had sent the tickets as promised. I really need to thank him for them. I should get him a thank-you card.