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Cherry

I don’t think I can do this anymore.

I stare at the screen of my phone in my hands and blink back my tears. It feels like all I’ve been doing is swallowing down sobs filled with self-pity and even I’m getting sick of myself.

“You need to buck up,” I mutter under my breath.

“Huh?” Serena looks over at me, having just taken out her earbuds and caught me talking to myself.

“Nothing.” I shake my head.

“Cherry, what have I told you about being on social media?” she lectures, grabbing my phone and turning it off. “Being on a plane should be the one place you’re free from this sort of stuff.”

“Free Wi-Fi,” I say, pointing up, like that’s where it’s coming from. Come to think of it, where does it come from? And how does it work?

Well, that’s a conundrum for another day.

“Seriously, girl. Why are you doing this to yourself?” She gives me a side eye and I shrug because I can’t explain it to her.

I can barely explain it to myself. Part of me wants to ignore what the world of keyboard warriors is saying about me, about Nicky and me, and the other half feels that’s worse.

Like, better the devil you know and all that stuff.

“It’s gotten so much worse since Barcelona.”

She winces and hands me her small bag of cookies. Like a true friend.

“Thanks.” I cram two chocolate chip cookies into my mouth and feel no better. I’d thought by travelling to Singapore apart from Nicky, by getting some space from him, my muddled thoughts would magically clear.

Newsflash: they have not.

“Barcelona wasn’t your fault.”

I know this is true, that the upgraded Vortex Motors car is just that bad, but when the world caught glimpses of me and Nicky playing tourists on Las Ramblas—a famous pedestrian street in the heart of the city—the night before qualification day, they decided it is in fact my fault that Nicky qualified right down the order and would be starting P11 on race day.

It was the worst-case scenario.

“We didn’t even stay out that late. You know Nicky. He’d never do anything to jeopardise the race weekend. We just went out for some tapas and were in bed at 8.30 p.m. I don’t understand where all the vitriol is coming from.”

We both turn and smile at the elegant air hostess who’s offering us drinks. To me, she’s my new favourite person.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” I order, and watch Serena grimace next to me, but stay silent.

“Make that two,” she says after a beat.

I clasp her hand in mine, grateful to not be drinking alone .

“Can I ask you something?” I say after we’ve both downed half our plastic cups of alcohol. Alcohol I hope will act as somewhat of a truth serum for my bestie.

She nibbles on some peanuts before nodding. “Sure.”

“You’ve been part of the team for two seasons now. You’ve seen Nicky out in his element up close, when he almost won the whole thing last year. Do you think he’s changed? And do you think it’s at least in some part my fault?”

The silence lingers between us for so long, I almost give up on hearing an answer.

“You want the truth?” she asks, taking another big sip of her drink before angling the top half of her body to face me.

No.

“Yes.”

“Nicky has changed. And I believe it’s because of you.”

I pull my lips between my teeth to stop them from trembling, looking down at my empty cup and wishing I’d had the forethought to order two.

“But that doesn’t mean I think it’s a bad thing.”

“What do you mean?”

She tilts her head and tucks a curl behind her ear before responding. “I’ve told you this before, but he’s happier now. Happier than I’ve ever seen him.”

“But he’s not winning.”

“That’s the whole point,” she grins. “Last year he won like eighty percent of his races and most of the time, he was stoic about his success. He’d celebrate up on the podium, smile for the cameras, and then he’d disappear.

He never came out for dinner with the team, he rarely did anything outside work-related events and he seemed to me to be… lonely.”

Oh, this description hurts my heart.

“And then you came along. All sweet and fresh and beautiful. Nicky could not take his eyes off you. He lit up when you were around, even if you weren’t paying attention to him.

You’ve seen the difference, I’m sure. Suddenly, he’s out celebrating with the team, he’s posting about charity events, he’s coming out dancing.

And through all of this, he’s lighter. Less intense.

Less like someone with something to prove. ”

My heart wants to sing at this, but it’s laden with the underlying implications of what she’s saying.

“But he wants to prove he has another championship title in him. That’s his goal. That’s his passion. If me being here in the team and in his bed means he’s forgotten that, then maybe I’m not the right person for him.”

Her brows draw down in a deep v between her eyes. “I’m not sure that’s true…”

I shake my head and turn to face the window, ending the conversation.

Serena is a good friend, telling me the truth while trying not to hurt me.

But the reality is that intense, focussed Nicky was winning races.

And now he’s not. Isn’t the role of a partner to bring out the best in a person?

Not to distract them from what they’ve always wanted the most?

A headache thumps behind my eyes as these thoughts mix with all my self-doubts and swirl through my brain.

They can’t all be wrong, can they? All the commentators, and experts, and F1 fans.

They all believe Nicky has lost his edge and they all believe it’s because of me.

And if one were to read what they think about this situation online (one has been reading this, that one being me), they definitely don’t think I’m worth any of this.

And sadly, this part of all of this? This I know to be one hundred per cent true.

I’m not worth any of it.

· · · · ·

“Oh, come on,” Serena groans and I peek out between my fingers.

The race in Singapore is well underway and so far, it has been a chaotic mess. Usually, this race is won on the Saturday with the driver on pole almost always winning the race, but today under the stormy tropical skies, this isn’t the case.

“He lost the lead?” I ask, nibbling on my thumbnail with my eyes glued to the big screen in front of me.

“Yeah,” she sighs.

We’d just had a long red-flag after Nate’s teammate hit the barriers and the race director called for a red flag and then a standing start.

This doesn’t happen often, but fans love it when it does because it means they get to see another race start.

With lights out and everything. Nicky had been leading the race before the crash, which meant he was in pole position at the re-start, but from what I can see unfolding, he’s already lost it and was down in third place.

“Grr, I hate this.”

Formula 1 can be brutal. Nicky had been in command of the race and with one split-millisecond of a second mistake by another driver and poof, it’s gone.

“He can come back,” Serena says, her curls wild around her face; another victim of the intense Singaporean humidity.

The look I give her is withering and I can’t help it. I’m hot and tired and cranky. And I just needed Nicky to win this race.

“It’s so hard to overtake here.”

She stays silent because she knows it’s true. Once the cars are in a train like this—a DRS train—overtaking is impossible.

“A P3 is good, though,” Serena pipes up ten long laps later as the cars cross the finish line. “It means he only lost out ten points to Nate. ”

The winner of the race gets twenty-five points, with the points going down to fifteen for third place. It’s enough to make the weekend not disastrous but is not enough for him to clinch the title here as predicted. Not by a long shot.

“We should go down for the podium ceremony,” she says, gathering up her things.

I hang back. “You go.”

“Come on, Cherry. You know Nicky loves seeing your face in the crowd.”

I swallow thickly, guilt for so many things eating away at my stomach.

Part of me wants to go down there and celebrate this with the team and with Nicky, but a bigger part wants to stay up here and hide.

I don’t need to look at social media to know the comments being written about this race; about how a ‘distracted’ Nicky let another win slip through his fingers. How it’s all my fault.

“I’ll join you in a bit,” I lie.

She hesitates, only leaving when I push her in that direction.

Once she’s out of sight, I take the stairs down to my ‘office’, the small space I share with Serena at each racetrack and rarely use.

“Cherry?”

Tanya picks up after the first ring and I blubber the minute I hear her voice.

“What’s happened?” she cries.

I blow my nose and attempt to get myself under control.

“Did you watch the race?” It’s one of the few races where the time zone between Singapore and Australia isn’t horrendous, which means it’s one of the few races I know she’ll be watching.

She’s not a big enough fan to do the whole ‘wake up at two in the morning thing’ to watch the European races.

“Yes, I’m watching now. Nicky’s on the podium. Where are you? ”

I hiccup and swallow another sob. “I think I have to come home.”

“What?” Her shock rings out through the phone. “Why? What’s happened?”

“He’s not winning.”

“And?”

“It’s my fault.”

She snorts. An actual snort. “No, it’s not.”

I draw in a shaky breath. “Okay, it’s not all my fault. But me being here? Everyone is saying I’m a distraction.”

Tanya is quiet for a moment. “Are you sure that’s what this is about?”

“What do you mean?” I sink into an office chair and spin around in a circle until my head spins along with it. It feels like a perfect metaphor for my life at the moment.

“Cherry, I love you, but I feel you’ve been struggling with this whole Nicky thing since you got together.”

It’s true. We had two weeks of bliss and moments of wonderful since then. Everything else has been stress and awfulness rolled into one.