Revved(112)

And now I’m seeing past it, and I miss him with a physical ache. It’s not abating. If anything, it’s getting stronger.

Not much has changed about the way I felt about Carrick racing. I still worry every time he climbs into the car. I still watch on the television from the confines of my home, worrying for him the whole time. The only difference here is, I feel a sense of detachment from it. Not physically being there lessens the crazy in me I guess.

When I left him that night in Singapore, from the track, I went straight to the hotel. I quickly packed my stuff and got a cab to the airport. I had to fly to Istanbul on a connecting flight to Brazil, taking the better part of a day.

Uncle John and Petra had called me while I was on the plane. I’d had voice mails and texts from both of them. While I was in Istanbul, waiting on my flight to Brazil, I texted them both, telling them I was fine and that I would call when I could. I also texted my mum to tell her I was coming home. I just couldn’t deal with talking to anyone at that point.

It took me forever to get home to Brazil, and I was exhausted and drained by the time I landed in São Paulo. My mum was waiting at the airport for me.

I was so relieved to see her standing there. I fell into her arms in the heap of mess that I was. She didn’t ask anything. She just held me and stroked my hair, soothing me.

I haven’t really talked to Mum—or with anyone for that matter—about what happened. All she knows is that I broke things off with Carrick, and I left the team.

I have spoken to Petra and Uncle John. I called them my first day back in Brazil after I’d cried a river to my mum. I didn’t expand on anything that had happened. I just told them that I couldn’t be with Carrick anymore. That it wasn’t working for me. I think they both knew the real reason, but they didn’t question me on it, which I was grateful for.

I apologized profusely to Uncle John for just leaving him in the lurch like that.

He told me to stop being daft, and then he asked when I was coming back.

I told him that I wouldn’t be returning.

He won’t have it though. He won’t fill my job. He’s hired a temporary mechanic, some guy called Pete, to cover my work until I do come back.

But how can I?

Carrick said if I left he wouldn’t chase me. He meant that.

There’s been nothing. No calls or texts. Not that I expected there to be. But I guess…I don’t know. I don’t know what I expected.

But it’s right this way. Clean break.

You think it’d make things easier. It doesn’t. It makes them harder somehow.

Not being with Carrick, I feel like I’ve lost a limb. Nothing could ever have prepared me for how badly I feel at not being with him.

I thought living with the fear over his races was bad. It was child’s play compared to how I feel now.

So, why don’t I go back? Why don’t I call him up and tell him I’m sorry and beg him to take me back?

Because nothing’s changed. I’m still me. I’m still not good enough for him. I walked away from him, and I hurt him.

And he’s moved on now anyway.

Not with anyone else—well, not that I know of. But after I left, I couldn’t help myself from looking for news of him.

In the beginning, there wasn’t much. News on how his poles had been slipping back. I felt the blame for that immensely. And there was a photo of him taken a few weeks after we’d broken up. He didn’t look good. He was pictured leaving a sponsor dinner with his dad. He was dressed in jeans and a shirt, unshaven. He looked tired.

It hurt me that he looked bad, that he was clearly hurting, but a dark part of me was relieved to know that he wasn’t over me.

But then a few weeks ago, I saw news that his poles were picking up and that he’d taken first place in both his American and Mexican races.

I was happy for that.

Then, yesterday, I saw a picture of him here in Brazil. He’s in São Paulo for the penultimate leg of the tour. He was at some event, surrounded by models, and it knocked me off-kilter.

He looked better. He looked like Carrick. He was smiling. He was happy.

It felt like a punch in the gut, seeing that picture, knowing that he’s over me now. I know it’s hurt that I deserve, but that doesn’t make me feel any less shitty.

I knew it was coming, I just didn’t know how hard it would be to know he was over me. And I guess just knowing that he’s here, only an hour’s drive away from me, is making things hurt more.

Even more so right now because I’m on my way into São Paulo to have dinner with Uncle John, Petra, and Ben. I’m driving in. I borrowed my mum’s car to save me from having to take the train. Mum was invited tonight, but she already had plans. So, we’re going to have dinner another night with Uncle John before he leaves.