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Things hadn’t always been great between Jacob and me. Or at least, there were times early on when I’d been uncertain. But

then one weekend everything had changed, and I’d stopped worrying altogether.

It had been two months since our time together in Scotland. Two months of stolen weekends and intermittent texting and the

room late Thursday night. It had been two weeks since we’d seen each other, and I barely had time to say hello before he was

in my arms, kissing me hard enough to bruise. Eight hours later, I woke up to the smell of coffee and the sight of Jacob getting

dressed at the foot of the bed. He grinned when he saw me.

“I didn’t want to wake you up. I’ve got an early practice.”

I rose up on my elbows. “Are you around tonight?”

“Nah, I’ve got a date,” he said, tying his shoe on the edge of the bed. “But I’ll be around tomorrow.”

His words took a second to register. When they did, something cold fluttered in my chest. “You’ve got a date?”

My tone must not have betrayed my feelings, because Jacob’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah,” he said easily. “This girl I knew in high school lives here now. We’re going to hit up some fancy restaurant.”

“Oh.”

He finished tying his other shoe and straightened. “I’ll text you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Tomorrow,” I repeated numbly.

He leaned over the bed and pressed a fleeting kiss to my numb lips, and then he was gone.

All that day, my limbs were heavy and cold. I’d thought Jacob and I were... I don’t know. Not boyfriends, I guess, but

together. But he had a date. Some girl he knew in high school. He was taking her out to some restaurant. Some fancy, public

restaurant, where anyone could see them together. I wondered what they would talk about. What she might look like. If he would

kiss her after dinner. If they would go home together. The thought of it made me sick to my stomach.

I managed to get through FP1 and FP2 without embarrassing myself, but I was even more monosyllabic than usual during the interviews

afterward. I made it back to my hotel room around eight, threw my things onto my bed, and then sat heavily on the sofa. My

fingers kept twitching toward my phone, even though I knew there weren’t any texts there. I’d been checking all day, hoping

to see some message from Jacob saying he’d changed his mind, that he wanted to see me tonight instead of her.

But even if he did... even if he did, where did that leave me? He obviously didn’t think about me the way I thought about

him. I couldn’t have imagined going on a date with anyone else.

I sat on the sofa for an hour or more before I finally gave in and crawled into bed.

When I saw Jacob tomorrow, I decided, I would have to tell him things were done.

I didn’t want to lose him—the very thought made me feel all hot and panicky—but I couldn’t keep sleeping with him if he was going to date other people.

And I wasn’t stupid enough to believe I could give him any kind of ultimatum.

Jacob always did what he wanted. If he didn’t want to date me, no amount of arguing would change his mind.

I fell asleep before sunset and woke up in total darkness, bleary and confused. I wasn’t sure what had woken me, until someone

pounded again on the door.

My first thought was that I’d somehow slept in and was late for qualifying, but the hotel clock read one fifteen in the morning.

I stumbled to the door and pulled it open, and there was Jacob, fist raised to knock again. He lurched forward a bit when

I swung the door open. He was wearing a thin T-shirt and shivering, even though it wasn’t that cold outside.

“Jacob—” I started, then realized I had no idea what I was going to say. “Where’s your jacket?” I said finally.

He gave a strange little laugh. “Forgot it,” he said, and his words came out a little slurred. “Left it at the restaurant.”

“The restaurant,” I repeated. “Right.” I noticed his hair was messed up, and my stomach sunk. I took an unwilling step backward.

“I have to get up early—”

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

Something flickered in my chest. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I was—I’m so stupid—”

He let out a strange, frustrated noise and then stepped across the threshold and into my arms, burying his face in the crook

of my neck. His skin was cool against mine. I stood unmoving against him, frightened his apology was for something I couldn’t

forgive. If he’d slept with her, if he’d even kissed her—

“I suck,” he slurred. “I’m so fucking—so fucking bad at this.”

“Bad at what?”

He wrapped his arms around me, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Liking someone,” he mumbled into my skin.

All the air slipped out of my lungs. “Jacob...”

“Nothing happened,” he said. “Nothing happened, don’t be mad at me.”

I let out a breath. I couldn’t have been mad at him if I’d tried. I was so obsessed, so deeply lost in him that his drunken,

half-slurred apology completely melted my resolve. My fingers found their way to the back of his neck, and he let out a small,

sad noise that just about wrecked me.

“I’m not mad at you,” I said. “I can’t share you, though.”

He shook his head roughly. “No sharing. All yours.”

He leaned into me so heavily I had to work to hold him up. He was completely hammered, nearly blacking out.

“Come on,” I said, fighting the giddiness that had risen up at his words. “You’ve got to get to bed.”

“Bed,” he slurred.

I helped him to the bed and under the comforter, where he lay shivering while I yanked off his shoes. When I crawled in beside

him, he just about plastered himself to my skin.

“So warm,” he mumbled. About five seconds later, his breathing deepened. Whether he’d blacked out or fallen asleep, I don’t

know, but I’d never been more awake. I lay there next to him, my heart beating loudly in the darkness. All mine. He was all

mine.

From now on, I thought, things were going to be different.

He woke up the next morning bleary-eyed and cranky, bemoaning a splitting headache.

He made absolutely no mention of the night before, and for a few awful minutes, I thought I was wrong.

But then, after he got out of the shower, he made a cup of coffee and curled up next to me on the sofa.

He tucked his head into the crook of my neck and exhaled, all of his muscles relaxing with the breath.

It may seem like a small thing, but it was something he’d never really done before.

We’d had sex, but we’d never really had intimacy.

“I feel like shit,” he said finally, then pressed an unexpected kiss to my shoulder. “How do you feel about qualifying?”

“Um—alright. It’s not my favorite track.”

He yawned and shifted even closer to me. “I always fuck up the chicane.”

“Me too. The whole first sector, I can’t get the rhythm of it.”

“You’ll get it,” he said, leaning back to sip on his coffee. “You seemed to have it in practice.”

“You were watching?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t sound so smug.”

There was something in the flush of his cheeks that made me bold enough to push a little further. “You were watching,” I said,

nudging his arm.

His lips twitched. “Shut up.”

And from then on, things really were different. His texts became more frequent, until it was almost a daily thing, a constant

conversation about our days and our lives. His calls, which had previously been ten-second affairs to ask my hotel room number

or double-check a time, grew longer. And when we were together, he was more... more present, I guess is the word. He stayed

longer in the mornings, talking with me over coffee, and threaded his fingers in mine when we watched movies, once or twice

even falling asleep with his head in my lap.

Things got better and better as the season dwindled, until it was the last race of the season, and he was there with me in my hotel room in Abu Dhabi, telling me he only slept well with me, and saying I’d win the championship for sure next year.

I went into the race the next day feeling confident, but on the first lap, I got taken out in someone else’s crash, and just like that, the season was over.

That night, Jacob showed up at my hotel room again, cursing my bad luck and hugging me so tight I could hardly breathe. Then

he asked if it would be okay if he stayed with me in London for a while.

I leaned back to study his face. “Aren’t you going home for Christmas?”

He shrugged. “I’d rather be in London.”

I hesitated. “Through Christmas?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay.”

It was pathetic, really, how quickly the idea washed away my disappointment over the race. I hadn’t spent Christmas with anyone

since my dad died. The thought of spending the holiday with Jacob... it was frightening and thrilling, all at once.

“I don’t have a tree or anything,” I said stupidly.

Jacob laughed. “We’ll have to fix that, then. Tree, lights, stockings.” He counted the list off on his fingers. “I don’t fuck

around about Christmas.”

I fought a smile. “Yeah, alright.”

He went back home to New Mexico for a few days, to appease his parents, and then he showed up at my apartment in London with

a massive suitcase stuffed full of clothes. At first, he left his suitcase open on my bedroom floor, living out of it. But

in the days leading up to Christmas, his clothes slowly found their way into my dresser. Then one day, the empty suitcase

disappeared, shoved into a closet. I felt little bursts of excitement that whole day. I kept thinking, this was more than

just a visit. He was practically moving in with me.

The realization gave me an idea for his Christmas present, which was something I’d agonized about. I hadn’t been able to think of anything to get him. But when I realized he might spend time at my apartment over the winter, it was suddenly obvious.

I woke up on Christmas morning with his warm weight against me, his head tucked into my shoulder and one leg thrown over mine.

I lay there for a while, reveling in his warmth. When he woke up, he was soft and sleepy, and he pressed a row of kisses up

my neck. I slid my fingers into his hair and kissed him deeply, and it was several hours before we made it out of bed.

When we did, he made us peppermint hot chocolate (“It’s tradition , Keeping, I don’t care if you don’t like it”) and insisted we watch some old Christmas cartoon I’d never seen. The whole

time, my stomach was in a nervous knot.

When the movie was over, he poked me in the leg with his foot. “What’s up? You’re acting squirrelly.”

I bit my lip. “Want your Christmas present?”

“I thought this morning was my present,” he said, smirking.

Flushing, I rolled my eyes. “Do you want it or not?”

He grinned. “Yes, please.”

I pulled him to his feet and led him to the spare bedroom, pausing for a moment before I unlocked the door. I gestured for

him to go in first. Inside, there was a brand-new racing simulator. It was almost as fancy (and expensive) as the one Harper

used in their factory.

My heart was beating quickly as I stepped in after him.

“Wow.” He turned his bright smile on me. “This is awesome.”

“You like it?”

“Of course.” He nudged my ribs. “I’m definitely going to steal some time on it.”

I blinked. “It’s yours. I got it for you.”

His smile flagged a little, then he hitched it back up again and gave a little laugh. “This won’t fit in my apartment. And

anyway, you need it more than I do.”

I shrugged. My stomach had sunk a little. “I usually use the one at Harper, so they can track data or whatever.”

Jacob nodded absently. “Right.” He turned his smile on me again. It was sort of plasticky, I noticed. “Well, it’s really cool.

I’ll definitely use it sometime.”

He nudged my hip again, and then he walked out without really looking at it more. I swallowed down my disappointment. It was

my own fault. I should’ve made it clearer it was for him. Or maybe I should’ve sent it to his apartment instead.

We ate lunch and messed around for a while on the couch before he went to meet some of his friends who were in London for

the holidays. I ate dinner alone, like always, but it felt more hollow than it ever had before. I missed Jacob. And I couldn’t

help feeling he was slipping through my fingers. Like I was pushing too hard, like I might push him away.

I vowed to back off, to give him more space, but when he came back later that night, slightly tipsy from drinks with his friends,

he crawled into my lap and tucked his head into my neck.

“Did you have a good Christmas?” he asked.

I threaded my fingers in his hair. “Of course.”

He was silent for a moment, then he exhaled heavily and sat back on his heels. “I didn’t get you a present,” he said in a

rush. “I wanted to, I swear, I just—I couldn’t think of anything good enough.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “I don’t care.”

His expression was guilty, and I felt a swoop of relief. Maybe I hadn’t fucked up with the simulator. Maybe he just felt bad

he hadn’t gotten me anything. “I wanted to get you something good,” he said.

“It’s okay. Really.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said. He flattened his palms on my chest. “Right now, if you want.”

My hands were already sliding down his back, pulling him closer to me. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he murmured.

Later—much later—he lay next to me and slid his fingertips over my stomach. I was half asleep already, my muscles warm and

heavy. Just before I drifted off, he kissed my neck and murmured in my ear, “Merry Christmas, Keeping.”