Page 135 of First in Line

I still can’t believe the surprise they’d planned was an afternoon of karting. What a perfectly appropriate setting for me to meet Evie’s friends. I can’t race, of course, or I’d risk getting into trouble with the FIA. Being here is already stretching it a little, but racing, even in a kart, would come with a whole lot of consequences I’d rather not face. Even if I’m extremely tempted to try a few laps against Evie.

It’s okay, though. I’ve become everyone’s coach for the afternoon instead. The kids who came along with their parents are loving it, but so do the adults who want to beat their friends on the track. My experience with karting is limited, but I’d say I’m a pretty decent open-wheel driver, so I do my best with advice and tips.

The kids are racing right now, so the adults are mingling, aside from the few parents standing by the sidelines to watch their progeny race.

As I look around, I can’t help but appreciate the casualness of this. The place isn’t exactly festive, but they’ve made it work with a few balloons floating, tethered to the ground by little weights, and a homemade “Happy Birthday!” banner. It helps counter the austerity of the polished concrete floor, scuffed in places. Theair smells faintly of rubber and engine oil drifting in from the track, which I’m very familiar with. Chips and peanuts are on paper plates, scattered around the available surfaces in this area. There’s a beverage table with boxed juices, bottles of soda, and light beers.

It’s all very… authentic. Very normal.

I’ve been living in luxury for so long, I almost forgot what it’s like to be around real people. Between the crowd I’m usually around and my wealth, I’ve let my old self disappear in money and fame. I’m slowly remembering now, and I understand why Evie didn’t feel comfortable on Wesley’s yacht. Compared to this, it felt artificial. Boisterous. Overdone.

I much prefer this, even if the drinks aren’t chilled anymore and there’s no gourmet finger food. This afternoon is about the memories we make. Its quality comes from the people here, not artificial and materialistic stuff.

“Hey, Jackson,” one of Evie’s friends says, reaching me along with his wife. Tom, I think. “I know we said we’d all be chill, but would you mind if we take a picture with you? We’re big fans in our household.”

“Yeah, sure. I don’t mind.”

“It’s not to share online, I promise. We don’t even have social media.”

I’ve explained to them the reason I’m not racing in Austria today, as well as the fact that I’d rather my presence here didn’t become too public. I don’t want to deal with everything it would bring.

“Don’t worry, man. I trust you. Should we take it next to the other me?”

“That would be hilarious,” he agrees.

The existing decoration in this place is minimal—two crossed checkered flags hanging on one wall, and on another, posters and framed pictures of Formula One cars and drivers. And in themiddle of the display, a life-size cardboard cutout of me, which I find very amusing.

Needless to say, the few people who came in and didn’t know who I was were quickly clued in.

I walk with Tom and his wife toward cardboard-me. We easily find someone to snap the pictures for us and take a few shots with various poses. Tom stands by the cutout version while his wife is with me, still visibly a little starstruck.

In the two hours we’ve been here, they’re the first ones who’ve asked for pictures. But it seems their boldness is contagious because more of them come to do the same once we’re finished. I don’t mind, aware it comes with the job.

Evie is a little farther away, chatting with Cynthia and her wife. She glances in my direction every so often, and every time our eyes meet, we exchange a small smile.

Once the impromptu photo shoot is over, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. As I walk down the hallway to return to the festivities, drying my hands on my jeans, I recognize Evie’s voice, speaking low right around the corner. The fact that she’s trying not to be heard by everyone immediately piques my curiosity. So, I pause in my tracks and listen.

“I told you,” she seems to insist. “He’s just a friend.”

“Not with the way you two look at each other, he isn’t,” Cynthia counters.

“Well, we used to date.”

“You’ve said that, yes. For how long?”

Evie hesitates for a few seconds, then admits, “Seven years.”

“Seven years?!”

“Shh!”

“Evie, he’s more than a high school crush.”

I can hear the way she sighs. Then, after another pause, she continues her confession with, “We were actually married at one point.”

“What?!”

“Keep your voice down, Cyn!”