I feel an undeserved sense of pride when I see the pictures of him crossing the finish line and when he’s on the podium, holding the trophy. I might have helped him to a point, but he took himself the rest of the way.
I am happy for him. Happy that he’s racing. That he has his life back the way he wanted it. He has it back in every way it was, if the press is anything to go by.
Leandro’s name has been linked with several women since the racing season started, and there are pictures of him with women.
Each one hurts as much as the next.
He’s moved on. That’s what I knew he would do.
I knew that his attachment to me was purely because of the closeness we’d built during his treatment and what he felt for me was gratitude.
Still, it hurts badly to know I was right, especially when I can’t seem to move past him.
I filter the page to read recent news stories.
Nothing new since the last time I checked a few days ago. Just the same pictures of him arriving back home for the British Grand Prix, which starts next weekend.
Staring at the pictures, I trace my finger over his face, like the Internet stalker I’ve become.
Not that he wasn’t handsome before—because, of course, he was—but in these pictures, he looks amazing. There’s a lightness in his expression, which wasn’t there before. I’m guessing it’s because of his return to racing.
He looks beautiful.
Leaning back in my chair, I close my eyes, trying to ease the ache of missing him.
Will this ever stop?
I thought I’d be past it now. Maybe if I stopped torturing myself with news of him, then maybe I’d be able to move on.
Sitting up, I shut down the screen.
My phone lights up with Jett’s name.
“Hey, honey,” I answer.
“You still at work, Mum?”
“Yeah. I’m just finishing up, and then I’m heading home.”
“Well, just letting you know that I’m at the track with Uncle Kit and Carter. We’re gonna grab something to eat here. We won’t be home too late.”
Dinner for one. Takeout and a bottle of wine it is.
“Okay, be safe and have fun.”
“Will do. See you later, Mum.”
“Bye, honey.” I put the phone down on my desk and let my head follow it with a thud.
I’m turning into a total sad case Friday night, I’m childfree, and the best I can do is takeout and a bottle of wine.
I berate myself for this every week, too, yet I still do the same thing.
There’s a knock on my door.
I lift my head from my desk. “Come in.”
It’ll be Sophie, my new assistant. She’s been with me for a month now. Sadie left to go traveling with her boyfriend.
“I’m heading off for the night.” Sophie crosses the room. “Here’s the mail. I forgot to give it to you earlier.”
“Thanks.” I take it from her hand.
“The top letter was hand-delivered.”
“Hand-delivered? What do you mean, hand-delivered?”
“A man came in earlier. He asked me to make sure that you got the letter.”
“What did he look like?” I turn the letter over in my hand. My name is handwritten on the front.
“Black hair. Really good-looking.” She grins.
My heart starts to race.
“And he had a foreign accent. I think it was—”
“Yeah.” She clicks her fingers. “Do you know him?”
My hands are trembling, and I can’t stop staring at the letter in my hands.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna head off. Have a good weekend, Dr. Harris,” she says, retreating.
“Yeah, you, too,” I utter, distracted.
The second the door closes, I slide my finger under the fold of the envelope and open it. My mouth is dry, fingers trembling. I pull out the contents of the envelope.
Tickets. Two of them to the Prix at Silverstone next week. Full VIP weekend passes.
And a folded piece of paper.
I open it, reading the same handwriting.
TICKETS FOR JETT, AS PROMISED. I HOPE TO SEE YOU THERE, TOO.
My heart free-falls through my body.
He brought the tickets here. Hand-delivered them. But didn’t ask to see me.
Of course he didn’t.
The last time we saw each other, I was ending us before we had barely begun.
Maybe he wants to see me. Hope lifts my heart even though it’s wrong to feel it because nothing has really changed. Only time between us. I was still his therapist.
I hope to see you there.
Or maybe he doesn’t want to see me, and he’s just being the good guy that I know he is and giving Jett the tickets he promised.
My heart sags back down.
I miss him though. Like I’ve never missed anyone in my life.
I need to see him. For what reason, I don’t know. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I just know I can’t go on feeling like this.
And if he doesn’t want to see me, then it gives me a foundation to start moving on from him because I’ve not found a way to move on in the last seven months.
But I guess there’s only one way to find out if he does want to see me.
So, it looks like I’m going to the British Grand Prix.
It’s been seven months since I last saw her, and now, we’re in the same building.