Page 43 of Hot Lap
So I toe off my Mary Janes and cross to the dresser. I pull out a soft vintage tee that says "Sugar & Spice" in retro script on the front, and a pair of worn black leggings. God bless comfy dance clothes.
I pull my hair into a ponytail and cue up a playlist that’s half indie pop, half old-school soul. Something upbeat, something that reminds me who I am outside of all this F1 whatever.
The first notes of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" fill the room, and I start stretching, working through the stiffness in my hips, my shoulders, my back. The movements are automatic, muscle memory honed from years of dance.
Soon stretching turns to movement, small at first — a sway of my hips, a roll of my shoulders — then bigger, fuller. I dance across the hotel room, barefoot and loose, letting the music unwind the knots inside me.
The anxiety and fear, the feeling of being swept up in something too big. I shake it off, one eight-count at a time. I don't think about Graham Pritchard. I don't think about paparazzi. I try not to think about Reece.
Right now, it's just me, the music, and the simple joy of shaking my booty because I want to.
This marriage happened in a whirlwind, fueled by adrenaline and alcohol and chemistry I still can't explain. Now I'm sober, in a foreign country, and wearing a ring that feels both absurd and heavy on my finger.
It’s becoming clear that I need to know Reece much better before deciding if staying married makes sense. How else can I be sure if this thing between us is a fluke or something more?
Petra's words, and threat, still ring in my ears.
Stringing Reece along would be monstrous. Whatever this is, I don't want it to hurt him. Not like he's already been hurt.
If I can't be sure about us and give this an honest shot, then I owe it to both of us to walk away.
Yet if what I felt in Vegas wasn't just a stupid, drunken fantasy, then it deserves more than a hasty retreat.
I stretch one last time, then wipe the sweat from my forehead with the hem of my tee. When I head into the bathroom tosplash my face, I discover something unexpected on the counter between the sink basins.
Another massive bouquet.
This time, it’s pink roses, lush and fragrant, mixed with tiny pale-green flowers I don't recognize but love instantly. The green glass vase is the same as before, but the ribbon is different — a buttery yellow that makes the whole arrangement glow under the room’s soft lighting.
A small card nestles among the blooms.
I pull it free.
Still thinking of you. Still sorry. Whenever you're ready. — Reece
I brush my fingers over the petals, breathe in the blooms’ sweet perfume, and a lump forms in my throat. Two bouquets in two days. Not grand gestures of apology, but quiet, consistent reminders of his presence.
Frankie taught me actions speak louder than words, and these flowers say something I'm not quite ready to hear.
Tapping sounds at the adjoining door.
"Mai?"
I wipe my palms on my leggings and cross the room, hesitating a second before answering, "Yeah?"
"Was that music earlier?" His voice is warm and he sounds better than he did this morning, but I can’t quite put my finger on how. "Were you dancing?"
I laugh. "Maybe."
"Ona, my physio, is the best on the grid. She could swing by and help you stretch properly. Might give you some tips for the jet lag too."
The offer is so normal and simple. As if he's trying to take care of me in small, quiet ways.
I rest my forehead against the door. "That's really sweet, but I think I'm alright for now."
"Okay. Just thought I'd offer. She's got a whole arsenal of tricks."
There's a pause, a soft shifting sound like he's leaning on his side of the door. "You don't have to open the door. I just wanted to say I'm here. Whenever you're ready."
