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2026-09-04 12:01:24Marianna.
Two laps to go, and I'd forgotten how to sit like a normal person.
At some point I'd migrated to the edge of the break room couch, then off the couch entirely, and now I was basically crouched in front of the TV like a kid on Christmas morning, and Derek had stopped watching the race so he could watch me instead.
"He's thirty seconds ahead," Derek said. "You know that, right? He could stop for coffee and still win."
"Anything can happen," I said. "Tires can fail. Engines can fail. Montreal has a wall literally called the Wall of Champions, Derek, they named a wall after the champions it has eaten—"
"Okay, but—"
"Shh. He's in the tunnel."
The onboard camera went dark, then blazed white, and the car burst back into sunlight, and my heart did this ridiculous stumbling thing, this little trip-and-catch, the same way it does when he says my name a certain way. Which was insane. It was a tunnel. He goes through it seventy times a race.
But knowing something is insane doesn't turn it off.
Because I know things now. Embarrassing things. I know the exact shape of his hands, and so when the broadcast cut to the onboard, I wasn't watching a driver—I was watching his hands, the ones that fixed my gauze in the car while I bled on his seats, the ones that made tea at three in the morning, and those same hands were currently holding a thousand horsepower like it was nothing, like it was a cup, and I could feel my own pulse in my ears.
Last lap.
"Come on," I whispered. "Come on, come on, come on."
"He's winning by half a minute," Derek said.
"COME ON—"
Final chicane. The straight. The flag.
The room clapped. Priya whistled. The commentators said "masterclass" for the fourth time. And I sat back on my heels and let out a breath I'd apparently been holding since lap sixty, and thought, with total clarity and zero dignity:
That's my—
That's my what? We haven't said the word. Any of the words.
That's mine, my brain finished, unhelpfully, and I felt my whole face go hot in an empty break room, over a man four thousand kilometers away.
Then, on the slowing lap, the camera caught it. His hand came off the wheel—two fingers, up to the visor, half a second. Blink and it's gone.
I didn't blink.
I don't know what that gesture was. But I pressed my hand flat against my sternum, right where the flutter lives, like I could keep the moment from getting away.
My phone had been buzzing for a full minute.
Jill: ARE YOU WATCHING Jill: MARI Jill: He WON, are you seeing this Me: I'm seeing it. I've been crouched in front of a TV like a gremlin for 40 minutes. Jill: lol why, he was winning the whole time Me: BECAUSE ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN, JILL Jill: oh my god Jill: oh my GOD. You've got it bad Me: I have nothing. I am a medical professional monitoring a client's workplace conditions. Jill: His workplace conditions Me: Yes. Jill: You watched a car drive in circles for two hours with your heart in your throat because of workplace conditions Me: ...There may also be chamomile tea involved. Jill: what Jill: WHAT TEA. WHOSE TEA. MARIANNA. Me: He made me tea once. At 3 AM. It's not a big deal. Jill: I'm calling you tonight and if you don't pick up I'm flying to Miami Me: Deal.
Waiting for a call from someone you're falling for turns you into a crazy person.
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Saved by Brother's Best Friend 100
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