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of them gave up. Then, in early December, my parents suggested I get a US phone number and join their family plan. Now, no

one from my past life has my number, and that suits me just fine.

is flipping through sports channels on TV. I walk away every time that happens. I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to know.

I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.

If I keep repeating it, I’m pretty sure it’ll become true.

Two weeks before Christmas, I’m sitting in the kitchen with my mother, helping chop vegetables for dinner, when Paul arrives.

“Jakey,” he says, thumping me hard on the shoulder. “How’s it hanging, little bro?”

I sort of grunt in response, which is better than I usually manage. He kisses our mother on the cheek.

“Smells good, Ma.” He pulls open the fridge. “Want a beer?” he asks me.

My mother titters. “You know he can’t drink, Paul.”

“That’s not true,” I say through my teeth.

“It’s not recommended,” she says. “Your doctor says—”

“I know what they said,” I snap.

She and Paul exchange a look, like they think I can’t see them.

“Of course, darling,” my mother says, in placating tones. “It’s the holidays, I suppose one beer can’t hurt—”

“I don’t want one,” I say, because I really can’t stop being an asshole.

She and Paul look at each other again, then Paul clears his throat.

“Candace’s sister is staying with us for the holidays,” he tells me. “She’s about your age. I’m going to bring her for Christmas

dinner. You two can sit next to each other, chat a bit—”

“Paul,” my mother says with a nervous laugh. “I hardly think he should be thinking about girls right now.”

“That’s exactly what he should be thinking about. He needs a distraction. Right?”

“Right,” I mutter. Paul grins. He’s never been able to pick up on sarcasm. Or maybe he just ignores it, I don’t know.

“You’ll like her, Ma,” he says. “She’s a teacher in Highland Meadows, that fancy Catholic school.”

“What does she teach?” my mother asks, interest slipping into her tone.

I get up and walk into the living room, just to get away from them. This is about the fiftieth time Paul’s tried to set me

up with someone. He and my parents have been dealing with the whole Travis situation by pretending it never happened. They’re

so good at it, sometimes I actually wonder if they’ve forgotten.

Lily asked me about it once, after I was transferred to the hospital here. We were alone in my hospital room, and she turned

to me abruptly and said, “You and that F1 guy... you weren’t, like, actually with him, were you?”

It was so obvious she wanted me to say no. I sort of shrugged, and her expression went all sour, and she never brought it

up again. Looking at her, you’d think Lily would be more progressive, with her long curly hair and hipster jewelry, but she

went to a Catholic high school, and her awful group of friends really leaned into the idea that being classy meant being ultra-conservative.

Now she’s dating this Christian block of wood with zero personality and a two-million-dollar trust fund, and she’s always

harping on about how there’s nothing wrong with being traditional, and that a true feminist knows that the greatest joy of

being a woman is caring for a good man and bearing his children.

It’s always sounded like a lot of horseshit to me, but it used to be easier to ignore. She’s five years older than me, and

since I traveled so much for karting and racing, I never really spent that much time with her growing up. And although she

used to call me every month, it always felt like something she was marking off her checklist: be a good Christian, call your

brother once a month.

I sit down heavily on the couch. She and her wooden boyfriend will be here in a week, and I just know they’re going to drag us all to church a hundred times and pray before every meal. I know I shouldn’t resent her for it—I know she’s not trying to ruin my favorite holiday—but I do. And she is.

Not like it was ever going to be good this year, anyway.

I turn on the TV and flick aimlessly through the channels.

“Call now and get forty percent off—”

Click .

“—unrest spreading throughout the country—”

Click .

“—Travis Keeping, champion of the world!”

I freeze in place, my heart rendered motionless in my chest.

I didn’t even realize it was a Sunday.

I didn’t realize it was the last race.

It’s nighttime in Abu Dhabi, and fireworks are exploding over the track. The Harper mechanics are hanging off the fencing

beside the finish line, cheering furiously as Travis flies past. Mahoney and Clayton from Crosswire Racing roar by, a second

behind him.

The cameras shift to the Harper garage, where the team is in hysterics, jumping up and down and cheering.

I watch, frozen, as Travis pulls his car into parc fermé. He sits for a moment without moving, and my chest feels so tight,

I’m not sure that I’m breathing.

He gets out of the car and puts the steering wheel back in. The commentator is laughing about how he still seems so unflappable.

“A man of few words,” he says.

“Catching his breath, I’d say,” the other commentator laughs. “That was incredible. I really thought Mahoney had him in those

last few laps—”

“I think we all did! Ah, there we go—now we’re seeing some excitement—”

It’s true. Travis’ pace is picking up, he’s jogging to the crowd of Harper crew waiting for him. With his helmet still on,

he pulls two of them into a tight hug.

“Look at that,” the commentator says. “That’s what we like to see, incredible sportsmanship from Matty—such a shame he didn’t

finish the race—”

“Ah, and that’s Travis’ partner, Heather—”

Travis is hugging a gorgeous girl with long dark hair and freckles, and there’s something in the way he holds her that just

breaks me into a million pieces. She’s got tears in her eyes, and Travis’ teammate Matty is grinning so hard it looks like

his face is going to split open, and I think I might be sick.

I know that Travis is not straight. I know that girl is not his girlfriend.

But I’ve never seen him hug anyone the way he’s hugging those two.

They let him go eventually and he walks back to take off his helmet, but I turn the TV off before it happens. I don’t want

to see his face.

My chest hurts so badly, and there’s the most vicious, painful lump in the back of my throat.

He did it. He won the championship.

And he did it without me.

Paul is shouting something at me from the kitchen, but I can’t really hear him. There’s a horrible rushing sound in my ears,

and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe. I stumble up the stairs to my bedroom and lock the door behind me. I curl up

on my bed, hug a pillow into my chest, and suck in shallow, wheezy breaths. I’ve never felt this way before. I can’t breathe—I

can’t think . I haven’t cried since my crash, not once, but my breath is coming quicker now. Hot tears spill out over my cheeks, and then I’m sobbing, flat-out bawling like a child. The commentator’s words are stuck on a loop in my brain, playing over and over and over.

Travis Keeping.

Champion of the world.