by Kat Ransom
What is that about? I pick up the phone and swipe it open. Sixteen messages from some foreign phone number not in my contacts. I look through the first few photos.
Mallory on a couch. Mallory bent over plugging a cord into an outlet. A side profile of Mallory tying her hair up. What the hell is this?
“Matty, you recognize this number?” I hold the phone up so he can see it.
“377, that’s Monaco’s country code,” he answers immediately, throws another weight onto the rack, then makes the connection at the same moment I do. He’s over my shoulder in an instant, watching as I swipe through the rest of the pictures.
Mallory with a glass of wine next to her laptop. Mallory smiling at something. Someone’s hand on her knee. Then I get to Mallory in a bedroom, her back facing the camera. Then one of her pulling a Celeritas shirt over her head, her back naked except for red bra straps. I don’t make it any further.
I recognize those brick walls now, the old leaded windows in the photos.
I storm out of the gym with Matty beside me. We don’t speak but we both know where we’re going.
Past the administration building, through the garden, past a parking lot, all of it in silence storming over the brick walkways until we round the final corner and pass through a cluster of evergreen trees.
Mallory’s back is to us. She’s looking up at a shirtless Digby in the entryway of his residence building as he lets her out.
They say something and she starts down the sidewalk toward our building in the opposite direction. Digby catches a glance of Matty and me, adjusts his dick in his pants, and lets the door close in front of him, smiling at me like a fool.
“Don’t,” Matty puts an arm over my chest.
Black stars creep in from the corners of my eyes, my blood runs cold. If any of my internal organs or systems were working I would throw up. I should want to kill him, drag him out of that brick house and beat him within an inch of his life like I did the last time.
But I’m overwhelmingly hollow, a shell of a man standing here looking down on myself like an out of body experience.
“I’m sorry, man,” Matty mutters.
Twenty Five
“Take me back to the night we met, and then I can tell myself what the hell I’m supposed to do. And then I can tell myself not to ride along with you. I had all and then most of you, some, and now none of you” - Lord Huron, The Night We Met
Mallory
I cannot wash the filth off my body no matter how hard I scrub or how hot the shower water gets. I’ve been lather, rinse, repeating for an hour. That vile pig kept touching my leg, touching my arm, then he dumped a whole glass of red wine down my chest. I’m pretty sure he did it on purpose after I repeatedly told him I did not want his wine. The weasel probably roofied it. I refused to put his disgusting shirt that he offered on and wore Lennox’s Celeritas jacket home zipped all the way up to my neck like a nun.
I hate this so much I am sick to my stomach. I hate that I left Lennox in bed this morning, lying to him as he was being so sweet to me begging me to come back to bed. Making up meetings, secreting around, this is not who I am. But I have to do this, for both of us. I will get us through this if I have to take a million showers every day to get Digby’s stench off me.
Digby DuPraved suddenly decided he needs to launch new social media accounts and demanded I come to his flat. I tried meeting him in the admin building, the cafeteria, I tried flat out refusing.
And that’s when he showed me his true self, sending me copies of Lennox’s contract illustrating all the ways he could ruin him. If I played nicely for the next three months, the rest of the season, he said, Lennox would be out of his contract and free to drive for any other team without damage to his reputation. And without incurring the fifty-million pound fine that was laid out in black and white if he walked out of his contract.
Of course, Digby made sure to specify that he would not ruin my career either, as long as I did what was asked. He made it clear he could do that, too. I don’t even care about that anymore, but I won’t let him do this to Lennox again. I won’t let him take away everything Lennox has worked for since he was a little kid in those karting photos. I just need to get through these next three months and somehow not destroy my relationship with Lennox in the meantime. Keep Lennox away from Digby and not let him be provoked, that’s exactly what Digby wants, just like Sandra said. If I can do that, three months, ninety days, I’m out. My dreams will be intact and Lennox will be out, away from these sick bastards, and he can go to one of the other nine teams, wherever a seat is open. They’d be lucky to have him. He’s a world champion, for god sake.
He can race for a real team again, make his fans and his parents proud again. Even if I know his parents are proud of him no matter what, well, I understand how he feels all too well.
Ninety days, Mallory. You can do ninety days. You have to.
Getting dressed, I pull on a pair of tight jeans I know Lennox likes and his Talisker Distillery hoodie. I know it’s silly but he has a weakness for me wearing his clothes and I need all the help I can get. I spend more time on my hair and makeup, too. My eyes are puffy and bloodshot but, through the wonders of black mascara, I try to hide that.
As good as it’s going to get under such duress, I knock on his flat door. He doesn’t answer but maybe he’s still not speaking to me despite his text? I use my key and open his door, calling for him. Damnit, he’s not here.
Marching back into my apartment I find my phone and enter the dumb passcode I had to put on to keep Lennox from seeing all the godforsaken texts from Digby which he always kept just professional enough to not be incriminating, but slimy enough to make me queasy.
Douchebag: Ms. Mitchell, I don’t like to be kept waiting…
Douchebag: Great post, Mallory. I’d like to see you tonight about a different kind of post requiring your attention.
Douchebag: Thank you for a productive afternoon, Ms. Mitchell. Oh, you forgot your blouse in my flat. Whoops! ;)
The last one is from today, that pig. I’m so mad. I’ve screen-capped everything but it’s not going to do any good. Even Sandra said he has the whole board of Celeritas in his pocket.
Backing into my iPhone messages, there’s a blue dot next to “Lennox.” Thank god, he finally replied.
Lennox: Guess you were right, photos don’t lie.
There’s a picture attached and I blow it up and squint at it. It’s… me? With my shirt off. In Digby’s flat changing from my wine-soaked shirt into my jacket.
Oh my god, Digby took photos of me? The picture is taken from the door, but I closed it! That fucking pervert! And Lennox thinks… oh god, how could he not?
Mallory: Where are you? Please let me explain!
Three grey dots appear, then they’re gone. Then they appear again, hover endlessly, and then his reply comes through:
Lennox: Lose the number and move on. I am.
My fingers are frantic flying over the screen, he has to understand, I did not do this. I would not do this to him. I lied but I would never sleep with Digby! I’m going to throw up. I hit send but the message won’t go through, it’s hung up trying to send. Send you bastard phone, send!
I can’t wait, I call him. It doesn’t even ring, I get an automated message that my call cannot be completed as dialed. Did he, did he block my number?
I check my signal, four bars. I call again. Same automated message.
Just to make sure my phone is working, I call the only person who will always answer my call.
He answers on the first ring.
“Cody?”
“What’s up, sis’?”
“Nothing, never mind,” I disconnect and start dry heaving.
In a panic, I call Lennox again and again, but it’s the same thing. He’s blocked me. What does he mean he’s moving on? Please don’t mean what I think it means.
I race back across the hall to his apartment, my hands so shaky it takes me three tries to open the door
. His suitcase is gone, most of his clothes are gone. No, no, no! I have to talk to him!
Not even closing the door I race down the hallway and fly down the stairs.
“Jack!” I beat on his door on the floor below us. Tears are flowing from my eyes so hard I can’t see straight. “Jack, I know you’re in there! Open the fucking door!” I pound on the door more so hard my fists are red. “Please, Jack!” I wail and sob.
Finally, the door opens and Matty stands in the entryway, Jack behind him on the sofa with a beer. Matty has ice in his veins, he looks like he wants to kill me. I have never seen him look so cold. And Matty always looks cold.
“Where is he?” I try to move into the apartment but Matty puts his hands on the door and frame to block me. I push him and wiggle through his arms, he huffs in disgust.
“He’s not here,” Matty says as I go from room to room like a crazy person calling for him. I’m out of my mind.
“Where is he?” I scream at them again. They both just stare at me like a raving lunatic. Because I am a raving lunatic. “Jack, please!” I go him and beg, prey on the fact that he’s always been kinder, more emotional, than Matty.
“You should go,” he utters and picks at the label on his beer bottle.
“Please, I did not do this!”
“At least the last one fucked him over after one bad season. You, he has one bad race and that was all it took,” Matty crosses his arms and sneers at me, his eye twitching.
“What? No! I did not do this! Please, just tell me where he is!”
“We saw you. With our own eyes,” he’s disgusted and shakes his head at me. “He’s in London. Likely a club. There are fifty thousand of them, good luck. Now leave.” Matty holds the door open and points the way out.
I collapse at Jack’s feet at the couch, literally begging. “Please tell me,” I whimper and don’t even bother wiping away the snot I know is running out of my nose.
“You have to know where our loyalty will always be. You should go, Mallory.” Jack runs his fingers through his hair then goes to the door, his arms crossed too, but staring at the floor.
I feel like a garden snake slithering past them out the door into the hallway where Matty slams the door in my face. I know they’re right, he’s gone. But I check the parking lot anyway. His car is gone.
Making my way back to my flat, I have no idea what to do. He doesn’t check any direct messages, doesn’t do email, his inbox had over 16,000 messages the last time I logged into it. I handle all of his digital communications. I’m the only one who will see it if I contact him in any way.
I could call an Uber and head into London. But, as usual, Matty is right. London is enormous. There are tens of thousands of places he could go, if he even went to London. Why would Matty or Jack give me a hint, no matter how trivial? They think I’m worse than Kate.
I pace from room to room in my flat until I collapse on the bed. There’s no way he will ever forgive me for lying, even if I explain it to him. “Photos don’t lie,” he threw that back in my face, the same thing I accused him of. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could I be so stupid?
All I can do is lie here and cry until it hurts, until my eyes are raw, and hope he comes home. Alone. Not with anyone he’s ‘moving on’ with tonight. But he’s hurt and angry. The thought wretches my stomach so violently I barely make it to the toilet in time to throw up.
Halfway through the night I get up and move to Lennox’s flat. I know he hasn’t come home because I would have heard it. It’s not like I can really sleep even though every couple of hours my body shuts down for a few minutes. In his flat, I’m at least surrounded by him, wrapped in his sheets that smell like him, sweet torture.
Because I am stupid and desperate, I keep calling and texting him through the night. I send him a thousand messages that don’t go through. I admit it in writing and tell him I love him. That I would never hurt him like that. I beg him not to throw us away and hurt me tonight.
None of them go through.
Despite exhaustion, my body launches upright when I hear the doorknob jiggling the next morning, or whatever time it is. It’s daylight, that’s all I can tell. My pillow is soaked and black from pools of my mascara.
“Lennox?” I run into the living room as the door opens, still in yesterday’s clothes.
“Oh, sorry, Ms. Mitchell.” One of the Celeritas security guards has let himself in. “Um, boy, this is awkward.”
“What?” Has he been hurt, did he drive like a madman and wreck that stupid time machine car?
“Umm,” the man in Celeritas security gear scratches his head. “I’m real sorry ma’am but I’ve been sent to remove all the personal effects and change the locks on this flat.”
I don’t have any words forming in my mind, just colors and swirls and stars. I race to the bathroom and throw up the only thing left inside me, putrid bile. I stagger back out and look at the man. “Do you…” I mumble.
He puts his hands up, “I don’t know anything, ma’am. Just changing the locks. Do you need assistance moving any items to your flat?”
“N-no, let me just get my phone.” Walking back into his bedroom I find my phone in the sheets and like a pathetic little girl, I take his pillow with me and walk past the security guard, full of shame.
In my kitchen, the tears start again. He’s really serious. He’s done with me.
I tap my phone screen awake to try him again. There are a series of Google Alerts waiting for me. I have them set up to ping me whenever certain keywords hit the web’s search index, “Lennox Gibbes,” “Gibbes Celeritas,” “#LennoxGibbes2019.” There’s a smattering of those alerts covering my screen now.
My fingers are shaking so bad I can hardly click the links.
Headline: Celeritas’ Lennox Gibbes’ Wild Night in London!
Blog: The Paddock Playboy is Back, Baby!
Insta: Look who I met last night! #LennoxGibbes
PoeticPoppy: There’s videos everywhere, he was sooooooo drunk lol
5FingerDiscount: Come on, dude, that’s like 8 hot chicks hanging on you. Leave some for the rest of us!
PhoenixRysing: when u look like him maybe u’ll have a harem 2
ManchesterUfan: is that Kate Allendale with him again? Score!
There are photos and videos on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat - they’re everywhere. Several bars and pubs and clubs were geotagged. There are fan selfies with him on the streets of London at all hours of the night. He’s stumbling drunk in one of them. In another, he catches a bra someone offscreen throws at his head. Countless women wrapping their hands around him, smashing up to the side of him for photos.
I don’t even recognize the look in his green eyes, vacant.
I have nothing left in my stomach to throw up but my body somehow keeps producing tears. Those never leave me. The finality of it hits me, there is no recovering from this now. Up until this very moment I was holding onto the smallest shred of hope, but this is the end.
They’ve swallowed us up. And now it’s too late.
It’s dark when I wake up on the couch and, like a moth to a flame, I make myself check the usual platforms. There’s nothing new. No messages or missed calls, either. I’ve been ghosted and replaced. I have no idea where he might be, not that it matters. I have no one in my corner on this entire continent and have never been so alone. Do I even have a job anymore?
With delirious thoughts speeding through my mind and the worst pain I have ever had in my head, or my heart, I check my work email.
Ms. Mitchell,
As I understand it, this email will not come as a surprise to you. Effective immediately, there has been a staff restructure. You will now solely represent Mr. DuPont. Mr. Gibbes issued this request and Mr. DuPont has accepted. In the best interest of Celeritas, I have made all the necessary arrangements. You will depart for Austria in two days with the other DuPont personnel.
Best,
Sandra Alix
Director of Marketing and
Communications
Celeritas Racing
I don’t have the strength to throw my phone so it slips from my hand to the floor.
Twenty Six
“See, honey, I saw love. You see it came to me, it put its face up to my face so I could see. Yeah, then I saw love disfigure me into something I am not recognizing.” - Phosphorescent - Song for Zula
Lennox
Release the car. Release the car. Release. The. Bloody. Car.
I grip the steering wheel tight. I have to get out of this garage. I can see her in my periphery vision no matter how much I lock my face straight ahead, out of the garage and onto the pit lane in Austria. Standing on his side of the garage in his #16 Celeritas apparel, her head is hung low.
I had to quit drinking days ago to drive this weekend. Conveniently, I was presented with a cup to piss in this morning. I’ve never had a drink within days of driving but that’s never stopped the ‘random’ tests after DuPont knows I’ve been out. I’m the only driver on the grid who’s been tested in years. Fucking douche.
Unfortunately, without the burn of liters of scotch in my gut, things aren’t numb anymore.
I focus on hating him, all the ways I want to hurt him, as I chase his car around and around the track today. I can picture it in my head, I can hear the sounds it would make, visualize the carbon fiber shattering if I just run right the hell into him at full speed.
The people watching, the factory workers in Aylesbury who would only have to rebuild everything and who depend on his farce of a team to pay their mortgages and send their kids to college are the only reasons I back off. It certainly isn’t the engineers in my ear telling me to back off.
