Page 21 of First in Line

When I came back home that day after Jackson dropped me off at work, I found it tucked into my windshield. “Call me whenever,” it says, and below, his phone number.

It looks European, and I don’t even want to imagine what calling it in Australia will do to my phone bill. Though I guess I could use WhatsApp…

I stare at the numbers, then at the phone in my hand. Nathan’s questions in the car have me wondering if he is also frustrated by how long this is taking. When I started the whole process, I genuinely thought it would be sorted within a month. But almost six of them have passed now, and I’m still no closer to having divorced Jackson.

Realistically, Jax’s life is about to become even more intense than it was during his off-season, with races all over the world every couple of weeks on average. But maybe he’ll realize that my pestering about the divorce papers isn’t worth adding to his mental load.

I head to the kitchen and lean against the counter as I enter the number into my phone. Then, I open it through WhatsApp and press the call button.

It goes on for a while, and with every ring, I want to hang up. Maybe I should just send him a text to remind him that he needs to sign the papers. That’s probably enough.

I’m about to hang up when he picks up. “Hello?” he says. The five-letter word is enough to make my belly flip.

“Hey. It’s me.”

I can hear the smile when he answers, “I knew you’d call.”

“Hm …”

There’s a pause, then he lets out a long, drawn-out breath.

“Congrats on the win,” I say.

“You watched?”

“Yeah, with some friends at a bar.”

“What did you think?”

“Well, you won.”

It’s as if he can sense the hesitation in my tone. “But…?” he insists.

“You got a little sloppy between laps 35 and 48. Your turns weren’t as sharply timed, and your braking was a little off.”

Another pause, another dragged-out breath from him.

“The press didn’t even notice that, Evie. But yeah, I got a little bored.”

“You always do during the third quarter of a race.”

“I know. I’ve been working on it.”

This time, when I notice his lengthy exhale, I ask, “Are you smoking?”

“I call it my victory cigarette. It’s a new tradition.”

“Those will kill you, you know.”

He lets out a chuckle full of self-deprecation. “I’ll probably crash and burn before my lungs can catch up, but thank you for the concern.”

In the past, I would have asked him not to say such things because they hurt me more than he knows. But it’s not my place anymore, so I bite my tongue and hold back from saying anything.

“I guess I could quit again,” he says after a moment. “I always preferred our old victory tradition, anyway. You in?”

I stare at the dinner table ahead of me, refusing to indulge in his teasing. We used to celebrate in a very naked, very intense manner whenever he won a race—big or small. But the greater the win, the better it was.

“When are you signing the papers?” I ask, reminding him he has no right to say such things to me.