Page 179 of First in Line
I broke his heart again, even though it was never my intention. I still mean what I said. I’ll return to him when I’ve decided. Good or bad, I’ll let him know. But for now, I’m trying to return to normalcy, so I’m sure my head is in the right place to make such an important decision.
It’s strange how quickly I slipped back into this life. Like the version of me that spent weeks in Europe, following Jackson around the world, never truly existed. Every morning, I wake up, go to the firm, answer emails, revise blueprints, eat lunch with Cynthia, and then head back home in the evening. It’s normal. Predictable. Small.
Everything Jackson’s life isn’t.
His weeks are airports, and cameras, and race weekends. It’s millions of people constantly competing for a piece of him. It’s strangers dissecting everything he says, does, wears, touches… Reporters waiting outside hotels, fans crowding barriers, headlines made from one wrong facial expression…
Jackson belongs to the world in a way I never fully understood before. Not really. Even back in Formula 2, when things first fell apart between us, he wasn’tthis. He was rising, promising, and famous within motorsports. Now, he’s something else entirely.
He isn’t justmysun anymore. He becomes the gravitational focus of any room he walks into. It’s like everything revolves around him. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering whether I’m embarrassing him somehow by not fitting into that polished world properly.
Because I don’t fit. I’m not glamorous or media-trained. I don’t know how to smile through invasive questions or pretend cruel comments don’t hurt. I can’t even read a handful of them before spiraling completely.
He already carries so much.
The pressure of racing, sponsors, media, expectations, his team, fans, constant traveling, the danger of his job… He shouldn’t also have to carry me.
The memory of Tuscany returns before I can stop it. Him crouched in front of me after catching me reading thosecomments online, still damp from the shower, concern written all over his face.The best thing you can do is let it go…
That’s easy for him to say. He’s built for that world. I’m not.
And maybe loving someone also means recognizing when your presence makes their life harder instead of better.
Jackson deserves someone who can stand beside him without crumbling under the spotlight. Someone who thrives in that life instead of feeling trapped by it. Someone who can smile in paddocks and at galas and on yachts in Monaco without secretly wishing to disappear.
Not someone who runs back to Colorado because it all became too overwhelming. Not someone who still freezes every time her phone buzzes, terrified another piece of her private life has been ripped open for public entertainment.
Cynthia and I are by the elevator, waiting for it. My eyes drift toward the small waiting area by it. The latest issue of GQ is still sitting on the coffee table.
It’s been there all week.
Jackson stares back at me from the cover, dressed in an expensive suit, his haircut crisp, his smile subtle and effortless.
It’s from the London photoshoot that put an end to your Mallorca trip. It feels like a lifetime ago.
My chest tightens. This is how it’s going to be from now on. Seeing him everywhere. On magazine covers, on television screens, on giant billboards in airports.
Watching the world admire the man I convinced myself I had to leave behind.
He’s so beautiful it almost hurts to look at him.
“Still staring at that magazine?” I blink and find Cynthia watching me with a knowing expression.
Heat creeps up my neck as I finally tear my gaze away. Before I can say anything, she gently grabs my arm and pulls me to the side.
“Listen, Evie,” she starts with her mom voice, “I understand why you came back, and I know you still have doubts. But it might be one of those times where you need an outsider’s perspective to open your eyes. You’ve got tunnel vision, and it makes you feel stuck. But it’s so clear to everyone else what you should do.”
“You think I should return to him.”
“Of course I do, Vivi. You’ve been miserable since you came back. At this point, you might as well add to your schedule ‘daily post-lunch crying session alone in my office, ten minutes.’”
“It’s not every day,” I defend myself. “And it’s closer to five minutes.”
She sighs, unimpressed. “I’m worried about you, Vivi. We all are.”
“You shouldn’t, I… I’m alright.”
Unconvinced, she offers, “Why don’t you come to Vegas with us in three weeks? The bedroom has two queen beds, and Yasmine and I planned on sharing the same one, anyway. You can bunk with us. We’ll get you last-minute tickets for the race and the flight. Maybe you’ll get to talk to him there. It would be good for you.”
