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All of that happiness evaporates, and I turn away, biting my lip in to keep from crying in front of Max.
Chapter Eleven
MAX
We pull into the circular driveway of a massive condo building in Miami’s downtown. It’s all sleek glass and concrete.
“This is where you live?” I don’t mean to sound incredulous, but it seems so unlike Lily. I’d always taken her for a stand-alone home, something smaller and cozy, filled with books. This is cold and severe. Not terrible, and I’m sure it’s luxurious, but different than I would’ve imagined.
“Yes. I’m renting for now.” Her brow furrows. “You can stay here while I pack.”
I stare at her. “In the car?”
“Yeah. Or go get lunch or something.”
We lock gazes. There’s so much pain in her eyes, all I want is to hold her. It’s remarkable how all the tender feelings I had for her are back with a vengeance. I wish she’d invite me inside, because I’m dying to see her place.
“Okay,” I say.
She lets out a sigh. “Or, if you want, come up and hang out in my living room. You can watch TV or whatever.”
“That sounds great,” I say quickly, hoping she doesn’t change her mind.
The valet takes the keys and we troop into the lobby and the elevator, flanked by bodyguards. From the looks Lily is giving the two guys, I can tell she’s uncomfortable about having strangers in her house.
She unlocks the door. “Sorry for the mess. I left in a hurry yesterday. I’ll make this quick. I don’t want to hold everyone up.”
The colossal, gleaming windows with an ocean view gives the living room an airy sense of freedom. Tall potted plants are nestled in sleek pots, their deep-green leaves popping against the white walls like wide green wings. The living room is light and open, like the Miami breeze. “Wow. I didn’t expect any of this.”
“Any of what?” She tosses her purse on a tan leather sofa that’s angled toward the windows. A fuzzy gold throw blanket is bunched in one corner of the couch.
I lift my shoulders. Considering I keep an apartment in Monaco—but didn’t pick out any of the decor inside—and stay with my parents in Germany often, this place seems like a home for someone who has their shit together, which Lily obviously does.
“I don’t remember you liking plants this much.” She frowns, and I follow up with, “It’s nice, really beautiful. Did you use a designer?”
“No. I did everything myself. I wanted it to look a certain way. Tropical, but warm. A lot of these condos can come off too sterile. I’m a plant person now, that’s kind of my hobby. Anyway, make yourself at home, the kitchen’s over there, the remote’s on the table if you want to watch TV. I’m going to pack.” She presses the heels of her hands to her forehead and mutters aloud. “How long am I going to be gone? How much should I bring?”
She wanders down a hall and I follow. “Well, there’s Austin, then Las Vegas, and Montreal. I’d pack for six weeks.”
I spy a couple of nearly empty bedrooms, with only modern beds and white linens. She stops outside of a closed door. “Why don’t you hang out in the living room? And eat whatever you want since I’m not going to be here for a while. Dammit, I’ll have to get someone in here to clean out the fridge. Maybe Mum can do it, though.”
She’s grumbling to herself as she opens, then closes, the bedroom door. Funny, in all the times we slept together, I never saw the bedroom of where she lived. Back then she’d just graduated from college and technically still lived with her parents. We were always traveling from race to race, and our time in bed was always in a hotel.
“Okay,” I say to the closed door, wandering back down the hall. I wander around the vast living room for a while, checking out her art (it looks like graphic Mid-century stuff to me, abstract concepts that I don’t understand but she probably does) and her books (a wide range of genres, heavy on the romance). The large bookcase is impressive, and that’s one thing that obviously hasn’t changed. She’s always loved to read.
I spot something on the shelf and lean in. Wedged between two hardcover books is an insert, a tiny diorama of a library complete with bookshelves, lamps, and a small cat. I grin and bite my lip. I’d given this to her back when we were together. It’s a handmade wooden nook that lights up, crafted by an artist in my German hometown. The fact that she still has it makes my heart slam against my chest.
It was her twenty-fifth birthday. I wanted to impress the hell out of her. I figured a gift like this would prove how well I knew her, how well I’d listened to her soul.
She’d loved it. Got teary when she saw it. Threw her arms around me and kissed me for what seemed like an entire, delicious hour. That night, I could see my lifetime unfolding. I’d become a champion in the sport, Lily would be my wife, and eventually we’d have kids and a beautiful life. A few weeks after her birthday she broke up with me, saying that we wanted different things out of life.
She didn’t want Formula World, and I did.
And now here we are, back together again. And not in the way I thought we’d be by this time of life. This was supposed to be the baby-making stage, by my old estimation. I stare at the little diorama. It’s a bitter reminder of a perfect life that I once wanted, one that slipped right through my hands.
The fact that she’d kept it all these years is like a punch to the gut. If I was that important to her, if she wanted a near-constant reminder of me on her bookshelf in her living room, why did she end it? Why didn’t she stand up to her father and fight for us?
She never gave me an answer, and now it’s too late—and too inappropriate to ask, under these circumstances.
