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My birthday falls on March third, two days before Hunter’s, so Heather insists on having a party on March fourth for both

of us. It’s a small, laid-back thing, twenty or thirty people drinking beer and eating barbecue in Heather’s backyard. She’s

a man talking too much about veganism. (That’s what Heather says, anyway. It just looks like a man waving, to me.)

I don’t know everyone here, but I know enough of them that I don’t feel awkward. Matty shows up a bit late with presents that

he pretends he bought himself, though we all know his girlfriend, Erin, did it for him. He definitely bought the cards himself,

though. Mine says “Our deepest condolences” on the front, but he’s scratched a line through that and written “HAPPY BIRTHDAY

ROBOT” instead. Typical Matty. After I won the championship, he gave me one that said “Sorry for your loss,” but he’d scratched

out “sorry” and “loss” to change it to “HAPPY for your WIN.”

“Thank Erin for me,” I say as I unwrap the gift. It’s a case for the new iPhone Heather and Hunter gave me yesterday, fancy black leather with my racing number stitched on in black thread. “Where is she today?”

“Some swanky shoot in South Africa,” Matty says. Erin is a wildlife photographer. A pretty successful one, too, I think. There

are prints in their house of photos she took for big magazines like National Geographic and BBC Wildlife . “I’m headed there tomorrow for the rest of the break.”

“Nice.”

“What about you? Going anywhere?”

“Ah, I’ll probably just stick around here. Have to train Morocco more.” Morocco is the name Heather gave to my new dog. They

called her Sprinkles in the shelter, which Heather said was the stupidest dog name she’d ever heard.

I kind of agree, to be honest.

“Riiight,” Matty says, stretching the word out. “You’re staying ’cause of Morocco .”

He gives me an exaggerated wink afterward, and I realize he’s talking about Thomas. My eyes stray toward him automatically.

He’s sitting in a lawn chair a little ways away, chatting with Hunter. Heather and Hunter set us up a couple of weeks ago,

and we’ve been out a few times now. He’s in school to become a veterinarian, and he’s really funny and handsome and clever.

He’s exactly the type of guy I should be dating—and I’m going to end things with him after this party.

I feel really awkward about it, although Hunter and Heather have both assured me it’ll be okay.

Among Thomas’ many redeeming qualities is how understanding he is.

He understood when we couldn’t go anywhere public on our dates, and when I asked him not to post any photos of us online, and I’m sure he’ll understand when I end things.

But, still. It’s awkward.

I have a drink to try to settle my nerves, but my palms are still prickling when I ask him if we can talk privately. Some

people are starting to head home, while others are talking about moving the party to a pub down the street.

“Are you okay?” he asks, as we step into Heather’s bedroom. “You seem a bit squirrelly.”

I hesitate, and he immediately seems to realize what’s going on.

“Ah.” His mouth twists into a wry sort of smile. “This is the talk.”

My cheeks redden. “It has nothing to do with you,” I say hurriedly.

He snorts. “That’s a bit of a cliché. It’s not you, it’s me.”

I manage a thin laugh. “I know. It’s true, though.”

He tilts his head and studies me thoughtfully. “Have you developed some sort of allergy to super cool people?”

I crack a smile. “No. I’m just... not over my ex.”

“Ahh.” Thomas nods wisely. “The mysterious ex I’ve heard so little about. That bastard.”

“I really thought I was over it.” (And okay, that’s sort of a lie.) “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” he says. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever love again.”

I chuckle. “Of course. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. I imagine I’ll slowly waste away from grief and consumption, and then someone will write a depressing novel about

me, and I’ll die famous. So that’s a plus.”

“I’ll make sure to buy a copy of it.”

“You’d better.” He smiles again, but this time I see a trace of genuine sadness in his eyes. I feel a stab of regret. He really is a great guy.

“You really are a great guy,” I say out loud. “I’ll probably be kicking myself for this in a month.”

“Nah.” Thomas squeezes my shoulder. “We just weren’t meant to be. And hey, we can still be friends. And not in that fake ‘let’s

say we’ll be friends but in reality never speak again’ way. Actual friends.”

My mouth curves up. “I’d like that.”

“And in forty years, when my kids are watching some boring documentary about F1, and they talk about the really hot guy who

won a hundred championships, I’m going to say to them, Kids, you know what? I very nearly fucked that guy.”

I let out a startled snort of laughter. “You’re going to say that to your kids?”

“Obviously.” He steps forward and hugs me, kissing my cheek before he pulls away. “Let’s go get drunk now, yes? I assume Heather

and Hunter knew this was going to go down?”

“Um... maybe,” I admit.

He groans. “Wonderful. Tell you what, I’ll forgive you if you cheat with me so that Hunter loses all the drinking games.”

I smile at him. In forty years, wherever I am, I’m definitely going to remember him as the nicest guy I ever broke up with.

“Deal,” I agree.

A few hours later, Matty and I stumble through the door to my apartment.

Morocco comes sprinting out of the living room, trying to jump on us and lick our faces.

She’s about five years old, the shelter thinks, but she still acts like a puppy.

I rub the top of her head, and Matty sits down on the kitchen floor and lets her climb onto his lap.

“What a good puppy,” he slurs. “Do I smell like tequila, Morocco? Hm?”

“She’s going to get drunk off your breath,” I tell him. Although honestly, I can’t talk. Thomas and I didn’t have any luck

conspiring against Hunter, and we kind of got plastered in the process. The room spins as I lean down to untie my shoes. “What

time’s your flight leave tomorrow?”

Matty is now lying on the floor with his arms spread out wide while Morocco paws at his face. “Not till four, thank god.”

“I’ll set an alarm. See you in the morning.”

“Late morning,” Matty stipulates with a groan.

I go to my bedroom and change into sweatpants and a T-shirt. I leave my bedroom door open until I hear Matty stumble to the

spare room. He’s crashed there a few times over the past months. I hear his telltale curse as he hits his head on the lamp

near the bed.

“Every time!” he complains.

“Every time,” I agree. “Night. Drink water.”

Morocco comes padding into my room a few minutes later. I close the door behind her and crawl onto the bed. She hops up beside

me and we both lie down. The ceiling is swimming over my head. I watch it for a while, my thoughts skipping around pointlessly.

They settle, as they always do, on Jacob.

And yes, I know it’s pathetic to be hung up on someone I haven’t heard from in months.

And I know Heather and Hunter think I’m slightly insane for breaking up with Thomas.

But it is what it is. I’m still hung up on Jacob.

If anything, dating Thomas just made me more sure of it.

He was a really awesome guy. There wasn’t anything about him I didn’t like.

He just wasn’t Jacob.

I grab my phone and open Instagram, which is the only app I have on my new phone, other than a clever language app that Matty

showed me that helps translate road signs and menus and things in foreign countries. I only have to type in “j” and Jacob’s

profile pops up, @jacob.tn01. Every time I open it, I kind of hope there will be a new post. At the same time, I’m terrified

there will be. I don’t know how I’d feel if he posted something normal and happy, like a picture of him and his friends, or

with a new girlfriend.

I’d like to say I set up my own Instagram account because Harper’s press team made me, but that’s not really true. They suggested

it a few times, especially in the lead-up to the last race, but I only agreed because of Jacob. I thought that maybe, if he

saw it, he might reach out.

Which was stupid. But yeah.

I throw my phone away and sigh heavily, raking a hand over my face. Morocco whips her head up to glare at me. I’m keeping

her awake. I pet her obediently until she falls asleep again.

Even though it’s well past three a.m., and even though I drank what felt like a hundred drinks, I can’t fall asleep. The F1

season will start up in a few weeks, and for some reason, it feels like there’s a clock ticking down. I don’t want to go into

the new season with this hanging over me. My brain knows that Jacob doesn’t want me, but it’s like my heart still doesn’t

believe it. I need to hear him say it out loud. Heather and Hunter have both said I need “closure,” whatever that means. And

Matty once told me that he hopes Jacob ends up in F2 again, so I can tell him off to his face the first time I see him.

I don’t want to tell him off, but I do want to tell him how crappy he made me feel. And how mad I am at him. And how sorry I am for not fighting for him harder. And how much I miss him.

He’s changed his phone number, but I could send him a message on Instagram, I guess. He doesn’t follow me, but there’s a chance

he would see a message. I don’t want to do that, though. I’ve never been good at putting my thoughts into words, and I don’t

want to send something off into the ether and then wait days or weeks or months for an answer.

I don’t want to send him a message. I want to see him, in person, and talk to him.

I grab my laptop from my nightstand and open Expedia. As I wait for it to search for flights, I wonder how much Expedia makes

off drunk people booking last-minute flights to visit exes.

A lot, probably.

After a few minutes of scrolling, though, my stomach is churning with frustration. How can it take eighteen hours to get from