A tremor of fear runs through me, seeping into my consciousness. A tiny part of the real me is screaming that I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.
No. I have to do this. It’s the right thing for the both of us.
I take a deep breath. Wrapping my arms around myself, I fix my eyes on his. “That’s the point…I don’t want you to chase me.”
I turn away but not before seeing the debilitating pain filling his eyes. It shreds me with each step I take away from him.
“Andressa…just fucking wait…please! I-I…love you!”
I freeze. My breath leaving me in a painful rush, like I’ve just been punched in the chest, as his words ricochet through me. My body jolting, knees buckling, I have to fight to take in air to stay on my feet.
I hear him move toward me, his low voice nearing. “Please. I love you. That has to count for something. Just…don’t go.”
“I love you, too,” I whisper the words so quiet that he won’t hear. But I needed to say it to him just once.
I breathe through the agony, and tears start to spill down my cheeks again. I pull in a strengthening breath. Then, I start walking, and I don’t stop until I’m out the door and out of his life.
REGRET…it slows down time in the worst possible way. Like a silent killer, it slides its hand around your throat and chokes the life out of you.
Even though I know leaving Carrick was the right thing to do, it hasn’t stopped the regret from creeping in.
When I ran, I was in a haze, trapped in a fog of panic and fear.
But once the fog lifted, it hit me with the force of a freight train. It was like the settling after the storm, coming out to see the wreckage.
I’d left him. I’d actually left him. There was no going back.
I would never again be able to talk to him, see him, be close to him…touch him ever again.
I lost it for a few days there. I couldn’t pull myself out of bed. I couldn’t stop crying. I was a mess.
I still am in a lot of ways.
I know it sounds crazy…that I sound crazy. At times, I think I might actually be readying to board the batshit crazy train. But that night in Singapore, the build up to it, I was so afraid, so consumed by everything I was feeling that I couldn’t see past it.
And now I’m seeing past it, and I miss him with a physical ache. It’s not abating. If anything, it’s getting stronger.
Not much has changed about the way I felt about Carrick racing. I still worry every time he climbs into the car. I still watch on the television from the confines of my home, worrying for him the whole time. The only difference here is, I feel a sense of detachment from it. Not physically being there lessens the crazy in me I guess.
When I left him that night in Singapore, from the track, I went straight to the hotel. I quickly packed my stuff and got a cab to the airport. I had to fly to Istanbul on a connecting flight to Brazil, taking the better part of a day.
Uncle John and Petra had called me while I was on the plane. I’d had voice mails and texts from both of them. While I was in Istanbul, waiting on my flight to Brazil, I texted them both, telling them I was fine and that I would call when I could. I also texted my mum to tell her I was coming home. I just couldn’t deal with talking to anyone at that point.
It took me forever to get home to Brazil, and I was exhausted and drained by the time I landed in São Paulo. My mum was waiting at the airport for me.
I was so relieved to see her standing there. I fell into her arms in the heap of mess that I was. She didn’t ask anything. She just held me and stroked my hair, soothing me.
I haven’t really talked to Mum—or with anyone for that matter—about what happened. All she knows is that I broke things off with Carrick, and I left the team.
I have spoken to Petra and Uncle John. I called them my first day back in Brazil after I’d cried a river to my mum. I didn’t expand on anything that had happened. I just told them that I couldn’t be with Carrick anymore. That it wasn’t working for me. I think they both knew the real reason, but they didn’t question me on it, which I was grateful for.
I apologized profusely to Uncle John for just leaving him in the lurch like that.
He told me to stop being daft, and then he asked when I was coming back.
I told him that I wouldn’t be returning.
He won’t have it though. He won’t fill my job. He’s hired a temporary mechanic, some guy called Pete, to cover my work until I do come back.
But how can I?
Carrick said if I left he wouldn’t chase me. He meant that.
There’s been nothing. No calls or texts. Not that I expected there to be. But I guess…I don’t know. I don’t know what I expected.
But it’s right this way. Clean break.
You think it’d make things easier. It doesn’t. It makes them harder somehow.
Not being with Carrick, I feel like I’ve lost a limb. Nothing could ever have prepared me for how badly I feel at not being with him.
I thought living with the fear over his races was bad. It was child’s play compared to how I feel now.
So, why don’t I go back? Why don’t I call him up and tell him I’m sorry and beg him to take me back?
Because nothing’s changed. I’m still me. I’m still not good enough for him. I walked away from him, and I hurt him.
And he’s moved on now anyway.
Not with anyone else—well, not that I know of. But after I left, I couldn’t help myself from looking for news of him.
In the beginning, there wasn’t much. News on how his poles had been slipping back. I felt the blame for that immensely. And there was a photo of him taken a few weeks after we’d broken up. He didn’t look good. He was pictured leaving a sponsor dinner with his dad. He was dressed in jeans and a shirt, unshaven. He looked tired.