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My flight doesn’t leave until five p.m. the next day, which gives me about eight hours to make up a lie to tell my parents.

I’m pretty proud of what I came up with. My old high school girlfriend Kelsie lives in London now. I tell my parents she reached

out, and that we’ve been messaging a bit, and that I’m going to go visit her for a while.

“A while?” my mother says anxiously. “What does that mean?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. A week. Maybe two.”

“You didn’t book a flight back?”

I shrug again. “Not yet.”

My parents exchange a look. “Are you sure you’re well enough?” my mother asks.

I make myself count to three before I answer. “My rehab team’s cleared me to race again. I think I can handle sitting in a

plane for a few hours.”

More than a few hours, actually. I’m flying from Albuquerque to Chicago to Dublin to London, with two-hour layovers at each

stop.

My mother hesitates. “What does your therapist say?”

I count to three again and force a smile. “She thinks it’s a great idea.”

That part is actually true. I left a message with Amanda’s secretary telling her I wouldn’t make my sessions for a while,

because I was going to London to see Travis. An hour later, Amanda called and told me she was proud of me.

I’m kind of proud of myself, too. I mean, yes, I was a little drunk when I did it, but it was definitely the right thing to

do. I keep getting these little bursts of fizzy excitement every time I think about it. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll

see Travis again.

“What does Kelsie do in London?” my mother asks.

“She’s going to school there, doing her masters in anthropology.” I know this, because I looked at her Instagram.

“Is she married?”

I roll my eyes. “Mom.”

“What?” She holds her hands up. “I’m allowed to ask.” She’s quiet for a second, then her mouth turns up a little. “I always

liked her.”

Of course she did. On paper, Kelsie was her idea of a perfect girlfriend. Shiny blond hair, pretty pastel clothes, always

smiling, always polite.

When our parents weren’t around, though, she was kind of a badass. She was the first person I ever got drunk with, and the

first person I smoked weed with, and the first girl I ever slept with. We were together all through high school and broke

up completely amicably after graduation. I remember her grinning and saying something like, “This isn’t High School Musical , babe. High school sweethearts who stay together forever wind up as bitter alcoholics with no imagination and fifteen kids.”

We kept in touch for a while—we even hooked up a few times when we both happened to be in Albuquerque—but I haven’t talked to her in ages. I have half a mind to actually message her once I’m in London, after I’ve sorted things out with Travis, to see if she wants to grab coffee or something.

I can kind of see telling her about me and Travis. I don’t think she’d judge me. She would probably be like, “That’s hot,

babe,” and ask me to text her a sex tape of me and him or something.

“Are you going to stay with her the whole time?” my mother asks. “You don’t want to impose.”

“I’ll get an Airbnb or something.”

Her eyes widen. “You haven’t booked anything yet?”

“You should book a hotel,” my father says. “Most of those Airbnb places are scams. You show up and it’s a shack, or there’s

nothing there.”

“That happened to Janice and Bob!” my mother says. “And they never got their money back, you know. The foreign police wouldn’t

even investigate.”

I can guarantee that’s not what happened to Janice and Bob, whoever they are, but I can’t be bothered to argue.

“Fine.” I rise to my feet. “I’ll go book a hotel.”

I’ve actually already booked one. For the first night, anyway. I want to have somewhere to shower and throw my things before

I go to see Travis. But I’m hoping I won’t need it after one night.

“Do you need help packing?” my mother calls after me.

I roll my eyes as I climb the stairs. “Nope. Thanks.”

“What time should we leave for the airport?”

I almost say that I’ll get a taxi, but I count to five and think better of it. “Three o’clock,” I call back.

We get there at two o’clock, because my mother was worried three hours wasn’t enough time to get through security.

“Call as soon as you land,” she says, kissing my cheek.

She looks anxious, like she’s sending a five-year-old off to their first day at school.

I had to count to five about a million times in the car, but I do feel a twinge of guilt as she walks away.

I know she means well, deep down. And I really think I’ll be able to tolerate it better once I’m out of the house.

People just aren’t meant to live with their parents after high school.

I kill an hour grabbing dinner in the Albuquerque airport and then another watching old episodes of The Office on Netflix. I’ve got Travis’ Instagram open in another tab, and I hear a little ding as a message comes in. My heart leaps.

For a second, I forget that I never sent Travis a message, and I wonder if he’s messaging me.

Obviously, he isn’t. The message is from @london.kel247.

Shit.

I click on it nervously.

Hey babe! Your mom called mine a little while ago. Really looking forward to our London trip this week. Can’t believe it slipped

my mind ;);)

I let out a strangled laugh.

There’s a green dot by her name—she’s online now. I type quickly. Shit. Sorry. Should’ve messaged. Kind of used you as an excuse...

She answers right away. Don’t apologize, I love it. Hope you’re doing something scandalous.

I think you’d approve.

;);) Bet I would. If your mom asks, though, make sure you tell her about the London Portrait Gallery. And the Tower of London.

And Stonehenge. My mom kept asking about our plans. Had to make up a bunch of shit.

I laugh out loud. Thanks.

No worries, babe. How are you? I heard about the crash. Really glad you didn’t die. Has everything been total shit since?

Thanks. And yes. Been living with my parents again.

!?!?!?!!?!?!? Are you kidding?

Nope.

BABE. Come and stay with me in London! I’ll kick my flatmate out tomorrow.

I laugh again. You don’t have to do that.

Meh. I was planning on doing it anyway. She’s the worst. For real, though. You need to get out of your parents’ place!!

Tell me about it. Working on it, though. I hesitate and then add, That’s why I’m headed to London, actually.

Oh yeah??

I hesitate again and glance around the airport. People are milling about, minding their own business. I still have a half

hour to kill. I lick my lips and look back at my phone. It’s so easy to talk to Kelsie again. It was always like that, every

time we met up. We just fall back into step with each other.

Slowly, I start typing again. Yup. Meeting up with an ex.

If it’s that dumbass model from two years ago, Jacob, I swear to god...

Lol. She wasn’t that bad.

She was EXACTLY that bad. She uses the hashtag #skinnygirlproblems on ALL OF HER POSTS. ALL OF THEM.

I snort. Okay, fine. She was that bad.

So who’s the new girl?

I hesitate. My heart is doing gymnastics in my chest, and I’m biting my lip so hard, I’m going to draw blood.

I don’t know what to type, so finally I just go to the screenshot that I saved of the picture of Travis walking his dog, say

a prayer to a god I don’t believe in, and send it to her.

The next five seconds are some of the longest in my life. I wait, clutching my phone, then—

SHUT THE FUCK UP.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW!?!?!

HE

IS

GORGEOUS!!!!!!!!!!!

The words are followed by a GIF of a girl fainting.

My cheeks go bright red. Omg, lol, chill out, I type. It’s not a big deal.

(It’s a huge fucking deal.)

IT’S A HUGE FUCKING DEAL!!! You have blown my mind right now, for real. Travis fucking KEEPING!

?? Do you follow F1 now?

No, but I don’t live under a rock. He just won the championship, didn’t he? It was in all the papers here. And he’s BANANAS

hot.

I bite into my lip, fighting a stupid smile. I feel sort of shaky with relief and adrenaline, like after you get off of a

really crazy roller coaster. I knew Kelsie wouldn’t care.

And she’s right. Travis is bananas hot.

Are you two dating?!!?!? she asks.

We were, yeah, before the crash.

What happened?

Parents found out, I type.

THOSE STONE AGE FUCKERS. Did they make you break up with him???

I wince. Ahh. Not really. Sort of fucked it up on my own. I pause, then add, Trying to fix it now, though.

Hence the London trip?

Hence the London trip. A crackly announcement overhead draws my attention. The seats around me have emptied out, and people are lining up by the

gate. Speaking of which—flight’s about to board.

You’re really just going to drop this bomb on me and then LEAVE!?

Haha. Sorry. I have another two-hour layover in Chicago. I could message then.

YOU’D BETTER!!! Text me immediately upon landing. I mean the MINUTE the wheels hit the tarmac. Don’t wait for the pilot to

say it’s okay. Everyone knows that shit about cell phones interfering with planes is made up anyway.

Umm I don’t think that’s true. But I’ll text when I can.

Amazing. Talk soon, babe. Safe flight.

There’s a heavy warmth in my chest as I stare at the screen.

Talk soon, I agree.