Page 67 of Until The Lights Go Out

I looked at him then, really looked, and for a moment I considered it: saying everything, explaining the way it felt like I was wired wrong, like everything good I touched eventually broke, like my father was always there in the background, a reminder of what I could become.

But the words didn’t come. Instead, I stepped past him, grabbing a clean shirt from the chair. “You wanted me up?” I said, pulling it on. “I’m up.”

Sebastian didn’t move. “That’s not what I⁠—”

“I’ll go to the paddock,” I cut in. “I’ll do the interviews. Everyone gets what they want.”

He studied me for a long moment, like he was trying to decide if that was enough. It wasn’t. We both knew it.

But after a second, he nodded anyway.

“Get it together, Theo,” he said quietly. “Because whether you like it or not, this doesn’t just affect you.”

Sebastian lingered in the doorway for a second longer, like he didn’t quite trust that I’d follow through, and honestly, I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t sure I trusted it either. But I grabbed what I needed anyway, pulling on a pair of jeans. My race team jacket slung over the back of the chair like a reminder of who I was supposed to be today. I caught my reflection again as I passed the mirror. I looked better than I felt. That was always the trick, wasn’t it? Make it look effortless. Make it look controlled. No one needed to know how much effort it took to keep everything from slipping.

I leaned forward, bracing my hands on the counter, staring at myself like I could force something into place. You’re fine. You don’t care. This doesn’t matter. I repeated it in my head like it was something I could convince myself of if I said it enough times. It didn’t stick. Because no matter how many times I tried to reframe it, to shove everything into a neat little box labeled “not my problem,” my brain kept circling back to the same thing.

Her. The way she’d looked at me the last time we’d actually spoken—sharp, steady, like she saw straight through whatever version of me I was trying to put on. The way she didn’t let things slide. The way she noticed. And worse—the way I knew she’d been the one standing in front of a camera, covering for me when I didn’t show.

Explaining and adjusting, fixing my mess like it was part of her job. My jaw tightened. That wasn’t fair, not to her. And I knew that. I knew it in that quiet, uncomfortable way that didn’t go away no matter how much I tried to drown it out. But the alternative—actually showing up, actually letting myself get pulled back into something real with her—that felt worse. Caring about her meant risking hurting her. But apparently, I was already doing that anyway.

“Brilliant,” I muttered under my breath, dragging a hand through my hair. I straightened, grabbed my sunglasses, and headed out before I could think about it anymore.

I slipped into the paddock, through the masses of people that made this circus run in a new country every week. Shoulders squared, expression set into something neutral enough to pass. A few heads turned when I walked through—nothing dramatic, just enough to register that I’d finally shown up. About time.

“Bauer,” one of the media admins called as soon as I stepped into the press area. “We’ve been waiting on you.”

“Clearly,” I said, not slowing down.

He blinked, thrown off for half a second before trying to recover. “We need you in position. You’re already⁠—”

“Yeah, I got it,” I cut in, grabbing a water bottle from the table and twisting the cap off.

“You’ll need to go through the revised run sheet,” he added, holding out a clipboard.

I didn’t take it.

“I’ll wing it.”

“That’s not⁠—”

“I’ve done this before,” I said flatly, taking a long drink.

His mouth pressed into a thin line. “We’ve adjusted timing because of your delay, so we need you to⁠—”

“Then maybe don’t adjust next time,” I shot back. I knew I was being difficult. I knew it the second the words left my mouth. But there was something in me that just…didn’t care enough to stop it. Or maybe cared too much about the wrong thing and needed somewhere to put it.

“Okay,” he said slowly, clearly trying to keep it together. “Let’s just get you mic’d up⁠—”

“I can do it myself.”

“Sir—”

“It’s fine,” I snapped. And that was about the moment everything tipped from tense to unbearable.

“Sit your ass down, Bauer.”

Her voice cut through everything. Maisey stood at the edge of the press area, headset pushed back, tablet tucked under her arm like she’d come straight from prep. There was a fire in her expression I hadn’t seen directed at me in a long time—controlled, but very much there. I deserved it, every bit of her anger. But I hated seeing it, so I did what I did best, eased the tension and pushed her buttons more.