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I remember exactly how it felt. It was just like the start of my first race in Formula 2.

I started in sixth, but I got an amazing run off the line and was in second place by the end of turn one.

There was one moment of huge, leaping joy—then someone slammed into the side of my car, and I went cold all over with terror.

I wasn’t scared of being injured, but of crashing out of my very first race.

In that split second, I had a vision of being dumped by my team, laughed at in the press, my whole racing career crumbling into nothingness.

Maybe that vision was a prophecy, now that I think about it.

Anyway. That brilliant, leaping joy followed by a wave of utter terror, that’s how I felt when Travis told me that he loved

me.

I pretended not to hear him, pulling out my earbud and saying, “Sorry?” and hoping to hell he wouldn’t have the confidence

to say it again. I saw him panic, watched him falter, and then I walked out of his house with my whole body trembling.

I went for a run with my friend Nate, who was visiting London, and tried to listen while he told me about his new girlfriend,

a flight attendant.

“She has the wildest stories about people on planes,” he said. “I swear they should make a TV show out of it. She’s crazy

good at calming people down. She could be, like, a hostage negotiator for the FBI, or something.”

I made a vague noise of agreement, and he kept on talking, his affection for her spilling out in every story. I was tempted

to ask him if he loved her, and if so, how he knew.

I convinced him to go for dinner afterward, as an excuse to stay out a little longer, but by nine o’clock he was eager to

get back to his girlfriend. I was not eager to get back to Travis. I was cold and jittery and anxious, and sorely tempted

to do something incredibly stupid, like go to a bar and get trashed.

I was just sensible enough to know what a bad idea that would be.

Instead, I sat on the front steps of Travis’ house for an hour or more, shivering and trying to think about nothing.

I would have happily stayed out there all night, but the cold finally drove me inside.

I opened the door quietly, hoping Travis would be asleep.

It wasn’t that late, but he went to bed early most nights.

The kitchen and living room were dark, but yellow light spilled from Travis’ open bedroom door. I went completely still at

the sight of it. If turning around and bolting had been a viable option, I would have done it.

Somehow, I forced myself to walk forward. Travis was reading a book in bed, his legs stretched out in front of him. He looked

up when I entered and said, “Hey.”

I didn’t answer him. I was caught in his warm, easy smile, my heart pounding like it was trying to escape my chest. I don’t

know how I’d ever tried to convince myself this was a casual thing. It wasn’t casual, the way that he looked at me. It wasn’t

casual, the way I felt when he looked at me.

I cleared my throat and turned away. “I’m gonna grab a shower.”

He made a noise of acknowledgment, and I escaped to the bathroom. I stood under the shower’s spray for way longer than necessary,

trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do if Travis told me he loved me again. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t hear

it if he said it straight to my face. And he’d expect some sort of answer.

“You have fun with Nate?” he asked, when I finally returned to the bedroom.

“Yep.” A little silence fell as I pulled on a T-shirt and boxers. When I looked up again, he was looking at me. Meaningfully,

I thought. Like he might try to say those words again. “What’re you reading?” I blurted out.

He glanced down at the book in his hands. “ 1984 .”

“I think I read that in high school. Or I was supposed to, anyway. I don’t remember if I actually did.” I was only vaguely

aware of what I was saying. I climbed into bed, keeping a careful foot of distance between us. “?’Kay, well. Night.”

“Night.” He sounded faintly amused.

I rolled onto my side so my back was to him, yanked the covers up to my chin, and closed my eyes. He couldn’t tell me anything

if I was asleep.

But a second later, he said, “Hey, Jacob?”

My heart thudded anxiously. “Yeah?”

“I’m gonna go to the store early tomorrow. D’you want anything?”

“Oh.” A flood of relief ran through me. Relief, and the tiniest bit of disappointment. “No. I’m good.”

“?’Kay.”

I waited, with my heart in my throat, for him to say something else, but the minutes ticked by and the silence remained unbroken.

After ten or fifteen minutes, I heard him put his book down and turn off his bedside lamp. He shifted down into bed, not touching

me. We rarely fell asleep touching, but more often than not, I woke up with his arm around me, or my fingers tangled with

his under my pillow.

His breathing evened out into sleep, but I don’t think I’d ever been more awake. When I was sure he was asleep, I rolled over

to face him. There was just enough light filtering in around the edge of the closed curtains for me to make out his features.

The strong angle of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips. Travis Keeping, the man who was in love with me.

I knew what I should do if he tried to say it again. I should tell him I wasn’t looking for something serious, and put an

end to things.

But I also knew I couldn’t do that. The very thought made me feel anxious and sick. I didn’t want to break up with him. I wanted to be the guy he was in love with. I wanted him to love me, and I wanted to never have to say it back.

It was selfish, but that’s how I felt. All the power I thought I had in our relationship had slipped through my fingertips,

and now that it was gone, I realized it had never really existed. Travis was a rich Formula 1 star who read books and donated

money to animal shelters and looked like a statue of some Greek god come to life. Who was I, but the first bisexual guy he’d

happened to stumble upon? It was absurd that he loved me. Absurd that he looked at me like he couldn’t believe his own good

luck.

Fear bubbled up in my chest. Someday, he would realize that, and the thought was almost as terrifying as the idea of telling

him I loved him.

Which I did. Of course I did. I didn’t need to ask Nate how he knew he loved his girlfriend. I knew the answer, because I

knew I loved Travis. I just didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to do with that information.

I shifted closer to him, suddenly desperate to be touching him, and he pulled me close without waking. With my head on his

chest, I listened to his heartbeat, one strong beat for every three rapid beats of my own.

I would tell him, I decided, with a surge of reckless bravery. When he said it again, I would say it back. I mouthed the words

against his T-shirt, practicing. I love you . I’m in love with you.

For the next few days, every time a silence fell between us, my stomach would tighten in anticipation. But the days turned

to weeks turned to months, and he never said it again. And now—

I pull myself out of my memories. I’ve reached the end of the hike. The view ahead is brown and gray and drab, and my face and hands are numb from cold.

I sit down heavily on the bench nearby, and for a minute, I let myself imagine what would have happened if I hadn’t been such

a coward. If I’d woken Travis up that night and asked him to say it again. The look on his face if I’d said it back. He would

have been so, so happy. And I would have kept chasing that feeling, I know I would have. Moving in with him, telling my friends

about him, maybe even telling my parents, for whatever that shitshow would have been worth.

Maybe I wouldn’t have been in the crash, if I’d told him I loved him. Maybe I’d have been distracted thinking about him during

qualifying, and started behind McDougall or Theriot. Or maybe he would’ve given me some tip about the track, and I would’ve

started farther up the grid, with Ellis Parrot behind me.

Or maybe the crash would have been even worse, for some reason, and I would have died on track. I don’t know. I don’t know

what would have happened, really.

I know I still love him. I do know that.

But I guess it doesn’t matter, now.