Page 173 of First in Line

With slow deference, I open the wooden lid. I don’t come into this room often, and it’s even rarer that I do this. Eight years and it still hurts. I don’t think it’ll ever stop hurting, really. But I’ve grown used to the dull ache.

The memory box they made for us stayed closed for almost a year before I found the strength to look into it. It had been so long that I barely remembered the items they put in it. I paid little attention when the nurse read me the list that day, nodding at everything.

My hands unhurriedly take out each precious memento, laying them on the changing table. There’s the pink beanie she briefly wore. The matching socks, which always seem alarmingly small when I see them, and a onesie. Then there are the hand and foot prints in plaster, which again are tinier than I recalled. There’s a photo of Evie, looking exhausted but happy to be holding our baby girl. I’m the one who slipped it in there, where it should be. The hospital tag might be the hardest one to look at, with her name, date and hour of birth, and weight on it.

When all is spread around, allowing Evie to take it in, I rip my eyes from the changing table to look at her instead. She’s emotional, eyes shiny as they go from item to item.

“Is it what you thought it would be?” I softly ask.

She shakes her head. “I don’t—I don’t know. This isn’t her. This is… stuff. I mean, the molds are partly her, but they’re not. I thought it would be more… real.”

I know what she means. And I know exactly why she feels this way. I took out the most important thing that was in this box. I carry it with me everywhere I go.

“Give me a second,” I say, kissing her temple before exiting the room.

I grab my suitcase, throw it on the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed, and open it. I always pack it exactly the same way, so I easily find what I’m looking for. In and out I breathe, aware there’s no going back after this.

Evie is exactly where I left her when I return. I walk up to her and bring the small box in front of her. “What is this?” she wonders.

I open it, revealing her heart locket within. She blinks a couple of times, surprised, but not as much as I expected. When she motions to take it out, I let her. The locket hangs from the chain as she holds it up. She stares at the piece of jewelry, reacquainting herself with it.

This time, she’s the one who lets me when I reach for the locket to open it. In the small space that used to be empty, a short strand of thin, dark hair is curled on itself, held together by a tiny white ribbon.

This isn’t “stuff.” This is Ophelia. The only real thing we have left of her.

It used to be neatly arranged in a small white frame, but I took it out and placed it there. This is where it belongs—in hermother’s necklace, close to my heart every time I get in my car to race.

Evie’s hand rises to her lips, gaze on the strand. “You’ve been carrying her with you this whole time? During every race?” she whispers through her fingers.

“Yes. I take you two with me on the tracks every single time. You’re my lucky charms.”

It’s sentimental and a little cheesy, which I’m aware of. But I don’t expect Evie to react the way she does at the revelation. She tilts into full-blown tears with a sob, pressing her hand harder on her mouth to try to quench it.

I carefully close the locket until it clicks and place it on the changing table with everything else.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s alright, princess. Everything’s alright,” I whisper, taking her in my arms.

She cries into my chest so hard that I begin to wonder what I did wrong. Worried, I grab her chin and force her to look up at me. “Are you okay?”

“No… I—I thought I could do this, but I think I was wrong. Everything is going so fast, I just—I can’t keep up. I can feel myself spiraling. Like I’m descending into madness.”

I do my best to dismiss the ugly thoughts trying to slither their way into my mind. No, she’s not saying we need to end this. She’s just a little overwhelmed.

“Have you been reading hateful comments online again?” I wonder.

“No. I promise. But I’ve received calls from friends and family. My mom’s being harassed every day, journalists knocking on her door to ask about me. They found out about Nathan, and people have been calling him a cuck all week. And they got my phone number, even though Cynthia quickly removed it from the firm’s website. It was ringing so much I turned it off yesterday and haven’t checked since.”

“Fucking hell… This is getting out of hand.”

“It’s been out of hand since the Netherlands, Jax. And I want to be strong enough for you. I want to let it all slide, like you said. But I just can’t. I’m not built like you. I don’t face my issues. I dissociate until I’m numb to everything and then flee.”

I’m well aware of that, but I think it’s important that she’s realized it. At least this time, she might handle it better. “We can try being low-profile for a while,” I suggest. “We keep the PDA to a minimum, like we did in Monaco. No one realized.”

“Because no one knew about us. They’ll be looking more closely this time. They’ll ambush us, shove cameras in our faces, expose every little detail of our relationship in magazines.”

Still struggling to understand what she’s getting at, I ask, “So, what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know… The European season is almost over. There’s Monza, Madrid, and then it’s all flyaway races. I was always supposed to go back to Colorado after the summer. It’s what we discussed. So, I was thinking you could take me to the airport in Milan after the race. And I’ll fly home.”