Page 114 of Driven Together
“Not even a little.” I tugged the foil free, worked the cork loose, and filled the two flutes waiting beside the bucket. We clinked glasses, the sharp ring of crystal cutting through the silence. For a few moments, we just drank by the window, the city spread out beneath us in a scatter of lights. The noise of Monza had faded to a distant hum, the weekend already receding even as it still pulsed in our veins.
Jonathan leaned his shoulder against mine, warm and solid. We didn’t talk about strategy or headlines or what came next. We just stood there and breathed, letting the victory become something quieter. Something ours.
Eventually we emptied the glasses. He set them aside, then drew me back toward the bed with a tired smile. The sheets were cool against overheated skin. He curled around me instinctively, like this was the one place the world couldn’t reach.
The last thing I remember before sleep was the steady rhythm of his breathing and the simple certainty that, for tonight at least, we had done enough.
Morning arrived quietly.
For a few seconds I didn’t know where I was. The room was washed in pale Italian light, curtains breathing in the faint draft from a cracked window. Somewhere below, a delivery truck rattled over cobblestones, the sound softened by thick hotelglass. Then the smell of champagne and cold air-conditioning pulled the night back into focus. Monza. The suite. Jonathan.
He was still asleep beside me, one arm draped loosely between us. Without the race suit and the cameras and the roar of the crowd, he looked younger. Softer. His mouth was slightly open, breath slow and even, the tension of the weekend finally drained from his shoulders.
I lay there and listened to the city waking up. Distant voices. A door slamming somewhere down the hall. The muted hum of traffic beginning to gather momentum. It felt impossibly ordinary after the violence of sound and speed the day before. Like the world had reset itself overnight and was offering us a clean page.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
The sound was small, almost polite, but it cut cleanly through the quiet. I reached for it carefully, not wanting to wake him, and squinted at the screen.
A text from Thea.
Loved your dispatch. You’ve got the job. Call me later and we’ll finalize details.
For a moment I just stared at the words. They didn’t rearrange themselves. They didn’t soften or clarify. They simply sat there, solid and undeniable.
Something in my chest loosened.
It wasn’t triumph. It wasn’t even relief, not exactly. It was the steady recognition of ground beneath my feet. A place I had earned and could stand on without apology. The noise of the paddock, the sideways looks from other journalists, the quiet fear that I was trespassing in someone else’s world? All of it receded a step.
I pictured Thea already at her desk, coffee in hand, moving through the morning with the same brisk certainty she brought to everything. This was how she worked: decisive,unsentimental, generous only when the work justified it. I had wanted this from the moment she’d handed me my first assignment. Now it was mine.
Jonathan stirred beside me, his brow furrowing as he surfaced from sleep. His hand found my hip automatically, anchoring himself before his eyes even opened.
“You’re up early,” he murmured.
“Occupational hazard,” I said softly. “Journalists and racing drivers don’t usually believe in sleeping late.”
He cracked one eye open and smiled when he saw the phone in my hand. “Good news?”
“Thea offered me the job,” I said. Even whispering it felt unreal. “It’s official. Or it will be when I call her later today to hash out the details.”
The smile that spread across his face was slow and unguarded. He pushed himself up on one elbow, still half tangled in sheets. “Waldo, that’s… that’s incredible.”
He sounded proud in a way that had nothing to do with himself. The warmth of it settled over me, easy and clean.
“I earned it,” I said. I needed to say that part out loud. “Not because of you. Because of the work.”
“I know,” he said simply. His thumb traced an absent circle against my skin. “That’s why it matters.”
We sat there for a moment, the phone still warm in my hand, his touch steady at my side. Outside, the city continued to assemble itself: engines starting, voices rising, the rhythm of another day taking shape. The season would move on from Monza. There would be another circuit, another race, another set of decisions that felt impossible until they weren’t.
I set the phone back on the nightstand and slid down beside him. He pulled me in without hesitation, fitting us together with the ease of long practice and new intention.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly, echoing the promise from the night before.
“We will,” I answered.
This time it didn’t feel like a declaration or a vow shouted over the noise. It felt like something steadier. A plan you woke up to and carried with you into the day.
Outside, an engine revved and faded into the distance. Jonathan’s breathing slowed again as he drifted back toward sleep, his hand still resting over my heart. I lay awake a little longer, watching the light climb the wall and thinking about the work waiting for both of us.
Somewhere below, the city was already moving. So would we.
