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TWENTY-TWO

Blake

I PRETEND it doesn’t matter. I try convincing myself that she’s a fever dream I can easily forget. But you don’t forget a girl like Ella, whether you meet her in line for Starbucks or spend months traveling the world with her. She leaves that type of impression. Trying to protect my heart with barbed wire is useless when a simple smile from her can cut it straight away.

My nights are spent tossing and turning; it turns out my favorite dreams and worst nightmares both have the same main character. My days are spent strategizing with my team on the upcoming second half of the season, trying to distract myself from the loneliness that’s starting to creep in. Being alone never bothered me before. In fact, I welcomed it. But I’ve gotten so used to having Ella around every day that I feel lonely for the first time in years.

After a week of not eating, barely sleeping, and partying with Theo to try to distract myself, I call my therapist for an emergency appointment. There are too many feelings to process and I’m comfortable enough to say I can’t do it on my own.

I’ve been seeing Paul on and off since I was a kid. Our relationship switched back to “on” after last season’s fiasco. His office is filled from top to bottom with textbooks, the walls adorned with his impressive degrees and accolades. I need those degrees to pull me out of the hole I’ve dug for myself. A ladder, a rope—anything he’s willing to offer me because I’m spiraling.

Each session leaves me emotionally drained and physically exhausted. I dread and eagerly anticipate each one with equal spirit. It’s been a trying few weeks. As I lean back into the worn-in leather chair in his pristine office for the second time this week, Paul lightly pushes me to open up about Ella. I have been, albeit slowly, but it’s a punch in the gut every time I do. I treated her like she means nothing when she actually means everything. And the worst part is, even though I want to make it up to her, to tell her how much I do like her, I’m not sure I’m capable of giving her what she needs. I’m trying not to hide from my emotions, but sometimes I’m scared to dive in because they’re so deep I’m worried I’ll drown.

“What if I really let her in and she hates what she sees?” I ask Paul.

I bounce my leg in an attempt to shake off the discomfort gnawing at me. I’ve opened up to Ella more than I’ve opened up to most people, but I’m still holding back. Still not letting her see all the parts of me. The part that my mum broke long ago, that my dad did nothing to fix, that the praise from the world barely holds together.

Paul sips his coffee. It’s in a “World’s #1 Grandpa” cup. I’ve only seen him repeat mugs a few times. And it doesn’t matter if my appointment’s at 7:00 a.m. or 8:00 p.m., he always has a cup of coffee in hand. Never tea. It’s as much a part of his identity as his combed-over salt-and-pepper hair or his gray-blue eyes.

“It’s not easy opening up, allowing people to see the parts of you that you want to keep hidden and private. It’s always a risk to expose ourselves emotionally. A lot of people struggle with vulnerability, Blake. You’re not alone in feeling this way. Far from it.”

“Really?”

“Really.” His smile is annoyingly sincere. “Sharing the most honest version of yourself—cracks, cuts, and scars—that’s scary. But opening up, letting people know the real you, not the you that you want them to see … that’s the foundation of forging intimate relationships that last. That vulnerability allows us to find the people we want to be in our lives.”

“I want Ella in my life.” Her name tastes sweet as sugar in my mouth. “As more than just a friend. I just … I don’t know. It’s not like I have a great example of what a relationship should look like. Or how to get someone to stay.”

“Tell me about her.”

“About Ella? What do you want to know?”

Paul never misses a beat. “Anything you feel comfortable sharing.”

“Uh, okay. Well, she’s beautiful. Not just physically beautiful either. She has this contagious energy that brings a smile to everyone’s face. You know those people who just light up a room when they walk into it?”

I pause barely long enough for Paul to nod.

“Ella walks into a room and fucking blinds everyone. She has this type of beauty that doesn’t only demand attention, it requires it and sucks you in until you can’t see anything else. I’ve never met anyone like her. She wants to spend time with me because she genuinely likes me. It’s not because of my job or my money or what I can do for her. She shows me she cares without even having to say anything.”

My entire face is warm with embarrassment. I don’t think I’ve ever said that much to Paul about anything, ever. He’s great at keeping his face blank as a slate, so I have no idea what he’s thinking.

“And how have things been since Italy?”

I’d filled him in on that situation two sessions ago.

“Not great. I didn’t see her until the race in London and it was awkward. George was there, so we were never alone or one-on-one. She’s not ignoring me, but she’s not not ignoring me if that makes sense.”

Ella’s stubborn as hell. Most of the time, I respect it, but her determination to act like she doesn’t care that things are off between us hurts.

He nods in understanding. I’m praying he doesn’t go cliché therapist on me and ask how that makes me feel.

“Why do you think you might be hesitant in being with Ella?”

He waits patiently while I come up with how to verbalize what’s going on in my head.

“What if she leaves like my mum did? What if I’m not good enough for her either?”

I rest my face in the palms of my hands, trying to compose myself, but it’s no use. Oh, how the media would have a field day if they saw Blake Hollis, King of Formula 1, crying in his therapist’s office. Paul hands me a box of tissues that seems to appear out of thin air. I don’t question it, instead gratefully taking the tissue box.

“It’s been well over twenty years since she walked out. Why can’t I just be fucking over it already?”

“Sometimes the ones we think we need the most are the ones who let us down the hardest, Blake, but that doesn’t make you any less capable of giving or receiving love. Coping with the loss of someone isn’t linear.”

The only thing I can do is shrug. If I talk, I’ll start crying again.

“Imagine your grief like a ball in a box, and in that box is a button that represents pain. In the beginning, the ball takes up most of the box, hitting the button constantly. It’s demanding and exhausting, a relentlessly overwhelming feeling. Everything is a reminder of your loss.”

I nod along to indicate I’m following.

“Over time, the ball gets smaller. It doesn’t mean the grief goes away, but it hits the button a lot less. You have more time to recover in between bouts of sadness. And the ball will always be there. It just becomes easier to manage over time.”

“But then finding my mum last year, not that she deserves that title, and hearing that she doesn’t care enough to have a relationship with me”—I struggle to get the words out—“I feel like it added another ball into this hypothetical box. And so even though my grief may have gotten smaller or whatever, now this ball is constantly bumping my button.”

I cringe at how sexual this hypothetical sounds but suck it up and keep talking.

“So it’s this constant reminder that my grief is still there, and then I’m forced to hit the fucking pain button again.”

Paul applauds my ability to apply the situation to his analogy. It feels good that he notices the work I’m putting in.

“Exactly. And the ball will always be there. It’s just a matter of how we handle that pain when it does hit.”

“Hitting people with my car felt like a pretty good way to deal with it.”

One of the biggest downfalls of being a public figure is that not only does my therapist hear about my shitty life decisions from me, but he gets to watch them on TV and read about them in the paper. A three-for-one deal. Lucky him.

“But you decided to finally come back to therapy on a regular basis after that. You realized you weren’t coping in a healthy, productive way.”

That’s for fucking sure. Drinking myself into oblivion and driving my car like I was a player in Mario Kart (thanks for that one, Ella) was the furthest thing from healthy or productive.

“I feel like I’m broken, and if I let her in, I’ll just end up breaking even more.”

“You’re not broken, Blake. Don’t be so hard on yourself for taking time to heal. You’ve been through a lot of shit and no one’s expecting you to come to terms with that instantaneously.”

“I guess I’m just scared,” I admit. Saying it out loud makes me feel like I’m going to pass out. Calloused hands push into the seat of the couch as I count how many textbooks are behind Paul’s head.

“Being scared isn’t always a bad thing. It can also mean you care.”

I groan loudly, leaning back into the couch. That’s what Ella said during my first interview with her.

“Ella deserves the world and what if I can’t give that to her? I’m scared of losing her because I’m not enough. I feel like I’ve already lost her and I’m fucking miserable.”

“Why do you feel like you’ve lost her already?”

Paul waves at the floor, letting me know I’m more than welcome to pace. It’s how I think best. I’m up and striding across the room without another thought.

“You know phantom limb syndrome?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “I watched some documentary about war veterans, and they talked about it. They described it as this, like, twisting ache that comes in a quick flash or spark. That’s sort of how it feels. Like she should be here, with me, but she’s not.”

He looks sincerely impressed with me and I glow under his attention. Hell, I’m proud of myself too. I’ve been known to walk out halfway through a session if I don’t like where the conversation is going.

“My advice? Stop worrying about those who’ve hurt you and start focusing on those who heal you. Who you know will stick with you through hell and high water. Based on what you’ve told me about Ella, she doesn’t sound like someone who’s going to run away just because things get hard. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I spend the rest of the break continuing my sessions with Paul, sim driving at McAllister’s HQ, seeing my sister and her family, and yep, stalking Ella on social media. I’ve officially become that guy. She spent a few weeks in Chicago with her family before heading to New York.

I chuckle at a photo of her and her brother eating hot dogs together at a Cubs game. I watch her take the phrase “dance like no one’s watching” to a new level at a bar with her friends. I listen to her drunkenly explain to Poppy why appetizers are just as important to dinner as dessert. I grin at a picture of Ella and her bagel guy, Sal. I can’t get enough of her. It’s like watching her life through a crystal ball when all I want to do is live it with her instead.

Paul is worth the 250 pounds a session and then some because I end the summer break with a determination to fix things with Ella. I’m willing to put in the work to be the kind of man she deserves. The kind who can give her the world. I want to be vulnerable with her, no matter how much time it takes to get there. I don’t know what will happen, but I know I’d be doing a disservice to myself by not trying just because I’m scared. That’s not who I want to be.

She has a magnetism that easily draws you in—and the closer you get, the harder it is to pull away. But I’m done trying to fight it. Someone better get out the checkered flag because I’m ready to win back what’s mine.