Page 73 of Hot Lap
I glance toward the shared doorway. It's still closed, but not locked. No sound comes from the other side.
Is he asleep? Getting ready? Or maybe he's already at the track and in the car, flying around at breakneck speed.
The thought of seeing him again makes my stomach go all woogie, but in a good way.
Since I can’t decide what to do aboutusyet, I choose to get dressed.
I open the dresser to rummage through the clothes and discover a bathing suit I hadn't noticed before. It’s a burgundy one-piece with a retro cut that would make Esther Williamsproud. It’s modest enough for Qatar and perfect for a morning swim to clear my head.
I slip it on, throw a long cover-up over it, and grab my sunglasses. Before heading out, I scribble a quick note and stick it to the inside of our adjoining doorway:
Gone for a swim. Back soon. -M
Just in case he looks for me. I mean, he's probably busy with race prep and team meetings and whatever, so I don't want to bother him on a workday, but I don't want him to think I've just up and left either.
The hotel pool is a spectacular oasis of azure water surrounded by palm trees and cabanas, already dotted with guests escaping the Qatari heat. I claim a wide, red lounger in partial shade, drop my cover-up, and dive in.
The water is cool silk against my skin, washing away the lingering doubts and questions.
God, I love being in a pool.
For two hours, I swim and float and lounge in the shade. I don’t think about Vegas, my marriage, or other people’s expectations and assumptions. I chill out and remember who I am when I'm not being defined by someone else.
Fucking Cinderella.
Just like Frankie said.
It’s afternoon when I return to the room with damp hair and sun-warmed skin. Room service arrives with a soft knock and a polished tray holding a salad, sparkling water, a shrimp wrap that’s to die for, and a little white card tucked into another enormous collection of blush-pink roses and tiny yellow blossoms.
It's the fourth bouquet this week, and somehow, that still doesn't make it less surreal.
I pick up the card and laugh.
You married a plonker. —RP 11
I don't know what a "plonker" is, but I figure it's something like "dipshit". Yeah... he kind of is, but he'smyplonker, and I like him more than I probably should.
I eat the shrimp wrap (sooo good) and let myself feel happy.
After lunch, I shower and get dressed in something casual and camera-safe with a little bit of a retro vibe. Then, I finally work up the nerve to knock and even ease open the connecting door on Reece’s side of the doorway.
“Speed demon?”
No response, so I step in and look around.
His room is empty. The bed is made. There’s a rinsed coffee cup left upside down to dry beside the sink, a gray sleep shirt and dark blue sleep pants folded neatly over the back of a chair, but no note.
No call.
No Reece.
I stand there for a long beat, unsure what I was expecting.
A knock. A text. A kiss on the cheek and an invite to join him at the track?
Something.
Instead, it’s like last night’s connection never happened. For him.
