‘Ki?’ He comes to a stop at his name, though he’s managed to put some serious distance between the pair of us.
He remains silent, contemplation scrunching up the little nub of skin between his brows. Uncertainty radiates from him and I begin to wish I’d never brought it up. So much for open and honest dialogue!
‘I was, uh, thinking about if you wanted to get dinner.’
Wait, what? I thought he was going to say something about keepingusa secret from the team.
‘Instead of breakfast?’
‘No, like, uh, you know … I was wondering if you wanted to go out. For, you know, dinner.’ His jumble of words washes over me like a tsunami and I’m glad I’m white-knuckle gripping the edge of the island to stop me falling to the floor. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s not this.
Why does this feel worse than him telling me he doesn’t want anyone to know about us?
‘Like a date?’ I ask, fearing the worst.
He doesn’t speak; just nods shyly.
‘Oh.’ There’s a ringing starting in my ears and I feel the moment the air whooshes out of the hard to open motorhome windows.
It’s clearly not the one-word answer Kian was looking for. In some ways it’s worse than a straight-upnobecause it seems to express incredulity that he’s even asking.
Disappointment etches into his face and I raise my eyes to meet a very sad version of Kian. I’ve seen him cry over nightmares, fume at a loss, and downright lose his shit in frustration at my antics but this is a new low.
If devastation needed to be captured in a photo, I’d take out my camera right now and provide an endless catalogue of the look.
‘Kian…’ I start.
‘No, it’s fine, honestly. A stupid suggestion. Ignore me. Clearly the cabin fever is getting to me.’ He busies himself at the sink, rinsing out a glass that was already clean. I’m presented with his back, but I don’t need to see his face to read his emotions.
‘Motorhome fever,’ I correct, forcing out an awkward laugh in the hope of breaking the tension.
He doesn’t reply. While I’m still trying to think of something to say to diffuse the situation, he grabs his jacket and trainers, tugging them on as he heads out of the door, kit bag of everything he needs for today thrown over his shoulder.
The door slams behind him and everything falls apart.
* * *
It quite literally falls apart when Kian qualifies in Q10 that day, and I know it’s one hundred per cent my fault.
And then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I find myself shut out of Kian’s bedroom. Relegated to the cold room that used to be mine.
Unable to charge my phone or soothe the aching pain in my chest.
It doesn’t make for a good night’s sleep and when I wake up the next morning with a plan for how to approach Kian and talk about it, he’s already long gone.
We don’t speak as we get ready to race. He’s locked into whatever’s playing in his earbuds – it’s probably one of his guided meditations – but his whole body looks tense as he tries to shake himself free of his mood.
During our walk to the garage, he didn’t stop to sign stuff or take selfies with every fan like usually does. He’s like a ghost as people yell his name. There are people literally holding up cardboard cutouts of him, begging for them to be signed, and his focus is entirely on getting into the garage and shutting out everything and everyone.
As I climb into my cockpit, I have to shut off all thoughts of Kian. I cannot afford to worry about him. I didn’t work my ass off to qualify third only to mess it up on the Sunday because I havefeelings.
And for the most part, the race is brilliant. It’s my favourite kind of battle, with a few of us upfront tussling for pole position, but Kian’s nowhere in sight.
I’ve asked Ash for updates on Kian’s position a few times and been told a mixture of P5, 6 and 7. He’s struggling to make up the ground after qualifying so far back.
Then, on the lead up to the seventh-from-last lap, a brief glimpse of a yellow flag catches my eye. Since the weather conditions are perfect, it means something’s happened. An accident, most likely.
‘Ash,’ I grunt out, trying my best to give the circuit nothing but my laser focus. ‘What’s going on?’
