#(there's plenty of room in there they can keep zak company)

[alasarys]

Sorry, what?

[honeybadgercomeback]

Come Back, Be Here (Part Two) | DR3

His heart was glass and you dropped it, but you dropped yours too. Four months after ending things your new job lands you back in the one place you never wanted to be. The paddock of the Yas Marina Circuit for the final Formula One Grand Prix of the season. Part One

Warnings: angst, like…heavy angst, Christian Horner (being a decent guy), arguments, mentions of McLaren being dicks, a happy ending (I promised didn’t I).

Words: 5.9k

—

Living in Nice was strange for you, but it helped. You’d spent plenty of time there when you’d needed out of the Monaco bubble and living there full time made a difference. It was a lot of fun as you wandered around your hometown, visiting museums and galleries. Most evenings you walked home from your new job along the seafront. Sometimes you’d catch a glimpse of a yacht in the Mediterranean and your heart would ache a little bit.

Time hadn’t healed anything. If it had done anything at all, you just felt guiltier. Two weeks after you left him Dan put up an instagram story saying that you’d ended your relationship and you both wanted privacy. When you’d first seen it all you could think was of Lando’s one and how he’d probably helped Dan phrase it, which set off more tears. You reposted it and then logged out of the account altogether. It had been left untouched as you set up a finsta to keep an eye on the people you’d loved. The decision to set it up was probably the worst thing you could have done but you couldn’t help it.

You watched every race, getting up early for Suzuka and your heart in your chest as you saw Carlos crash and the tractor on the track. Hearing Pierre’s radio made you wish you were thousands of miles away so you could wrap him in a hug. Every time you heard someone on radio you felt so guilty but you were the one who left. You weren’t allowed feel guilty about it.

The only person it hurt nearly as much to see as Dan was Kelly. You’d hold your finger on the screen and stare at the pictures of the family, missing P’s hugs and the way she’d started calling you her aunt.

But aside from the heartache it was the right thing. You’d gotten a new job as one of the marketing leads in a VR company, a mix of in the office and at home. You’d made friends with the couple who lived across the hall and every week you’d swap between who hosted for dinner. Your colleagues were fun and you got drinks with them on a Thursday to celebrate the week nearly over. It was easy to fall into a routine and forget how lonely your bed was.

Except every night you’d wake up feeling cold because your human radiator wasn’t there. You kept seeing people in the media call Dan washed up and useless and you wanted to scream that he wasn’t. He was one of the best men you knew and he deserved respect and support rather than the bullshit they were talking about. That if you’d been in any of the meetings with Zak you’d have been hard pressed to not rip him a new one for the lies he’d told about how they’d work with Daniel. You’d have slipped some sly words to members of the press who you knew and trusted.

But you were on the outside of all of it and you didn’t get to say anything about it anymore. You were the ex fiancée. It wasn’t your place.

Your manager had told you that there was a sponsorship organised with a UK based sports team, that you’d be having a meeting with their top executive. So you were sitting in the office on the zoom meeting, talking about plans for their final match of the year. The familiar ding that someone had arrived beeped, and you looked up to see Christian H in the new slot, camera still not on.

“We’re happy to make this public in Abu Dhabi. We’re doing a big announcement about our drivers for next year then too, so we can have this year and next years involved. This stays in the room, obviously, but we’re signing one of our former drivers to come back for next year. Daniel will be more than happy to get involved in any marketing we need.” Your breath caught and you almost missed your cue to speak until Emilie, your manager, nudged you in the arm.

“Perfect. We’ll need to do a briefing to make sure they’re all aware of the branding.” Please let it all be wrong. Please let it be a completely different Christian with the same voice involved in sports in Abu Dhabi. Please.

“Oh they’re aware, Max is a big fan. He bought the bundle as soon as it was released, when we mentioned the sponsorship was happening he offered to send photos of him and his girlfriend playing on it.” The camera finally went on and your prayers weren’t answered. Christian Horner was on the screen in the meeting room, and you could tell immediately that he recognised you. You just kept yourself together and acted like you were jotting down notes.

“If he wasn’t I’d nearly be surprised, Max and video games are like him and winning races this season. I’ll be in touch with a slide deck next week, is the email we sent this meeting invite to the best one to get you on?” You were proud of how professional your voice sounded.

“Of course. It’s good to see you again, will you be in Abu Dhabi?”

“N—“

“Yes, the two of us are going.” Emilie cut into your denial and you just kept your face steady, the photographer smile you’d perfected plastered on it. “The two of us are flying out, we’ll discuss it together and settle on dates. We’ll have a meeting to confirm next week with you, Christian.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll see you both then.”

It ended and you glared at your manager as the room emptied until it was just the two of you sitting there. Emilie looked at you.

“I can’t be there. If I turn up the media will be all over me. And I can’t work with Daniel. If it was Max and Checo only I could do it, but not Dan. I can’t do it.”

“And if the media are all over you then we get even more visibility for this sponsorship. Plus you know how Formula One works better than anyone else here. You know exactly what we’ll get away with. You need to be there.

“Fuck.” This week couldn’t get worse, and all you wanted to do was go home and drown your sorrows in a bottle of wine. Instead you couldn’t, because you were taking the lead with Red Bull.

It meant meetings every couple of days with Red Bull’s marketing team, Horner sitting in when he could. You’d met all of them in other contexts and the look of surprise was clear on everyone’s face. The last time you’d spoken to any of them apart from a casual wave was at Dan’s leaving party, when Horner had asked if there was any way you could convince your then boyfriend to stay at Red Bull. He wasn’t too impressed when you told him that it was all Dan’s decision. But here you were talking distribution deals, how Daniel and Max would have their own box designs and the development team was working on a new game where you could drive the car in VR. In return your brand was pride of place on their cars and you were giving millions of dollars. Win win situation.

The meeting was wrapping up and you were organising the final logistics about Abu Dhabi when a door opened on Christian’s side and you heard an oh too familiar voice.

“You wanted to see me?” It was Max and you couldn’t stay in the meeting much longer. You didn’t want to see him until you were ready so you could be ready for his anger at your lies.

“I’ll let you go. Email me if you need any more details?” You asked, hoping he’d just end the call and Max wouldn’t have time to recognise your voice.

“I think that should be everything until you get out to us. You’re arriving on the Thursday and we’re doing the big event on Saturday with the car unveiling, correct?”

“That’s right. I’m flying back here on Saturday, and we’ll have a representative there on Sunday to see the race. I think Emilie is staying.”

“You should be there. Have you missed the races?”

“I haven’t missed the media chaos. I’ll see you then.”

“Wait is that—“ You hit the end meeting button before Max could say anything else, sitting back in your chair with your hands over your face. Eight days until you arrived at Yas Marina and had to face your past again, and each time you thought about it you felt nauseous.

The one silver lining was that you didn’t have any meetings with Horner until the Thursday morning at the paddock when you were in Abu Dhabi. You thought you could have a week without talking to anyone from Red Bull, but Tuesday when you were part working from home and part packing you received an email. You should have guessed Max would have done anything to get your contact information.

SUB: DO NOT DELETE

FROM: m.verstapp@rbrf1.com

Hey,

First, don’t blame Christian for this. He left his iPad open when he left the room and I got your email address from his calendar. He refused to give me your details when I asked.

We miss you. I get why you had a clean break but you’re really missed. Kel thought she did something wrong until I told her about the elevator. P still asks if you’re coming to visit. She’s stopped asking Dan about where you are but that took a while. I tried to do what you asked and look after him but he’s still struggling. Checo’s retiring to stay home with the kids now they’re old enough to realise how often he’s gone, so Dan’s taking the seat. Horner made the joke that maybe he’d find the love of his life in Milton Keynes and none of us could mention he already had.

I haven’t warned him you’ll be there. Christian was going to tell us both on Thursday before you arrive in the paddock. If you want me to give him more notice I can.

Look after yourself for us? Everyone asks if we’ve talked to you. They all just wish you’d give your new number to call. If you still have our numbers nobody will get mad. And if you need them again just ask and I’ll send it all over. I miss my second sister.

Max

You started crying in your office as you reread the last paragraph. You missed everyone so much. Ending things had blown up your relationship and your friendships and none of it had been worth it. Yeah, your career was great but you were so, so lonely. Everyone who tried flirting with you to got compared to Dan and they never came out on top. It had been four months and the ache in your chest had barely lessened. Your hand still felt like there was something missing. You missed everything you’d given up. You even missed the jet lag.

It was the biggest mistake of your life, and in a few days you had to see him and pretend you were ok even though the exact opposite was true. Instead of replying to the email you opened WhatsApp on your phone and thumbed open the archived chats. There were so many messages there that you hadn’t read, but you opened the one with Max that had mostly been him sending you cat photos.

I miss you too

It took less than a minute for a response to come through.

It’s so good to hear from you. Kelly’s here, can we call?

He didn’t give you a chance to make the decision, a video call coming through with his name and WhatsApp photo. You wiped your face roughly and answered to see the couple in the tiny frame, heads pinned together

“Oh my god you’re there. You’re actually there. I thought Max had made a mistake when he said he’d heard you in a meeting but you’re here.” You couldn’t stop the tears as Kelly kept speaking, grins between you both.

“I missed you. I’m so sorry for everything, I just…I’m sorry. I’ll be there on Wednesday.”

“We’re seeing you. P is going to be so excited, she’s missed you so much.”

It was the briefest catch up before they had to go for their flight but you got to see them and they weren’t angry. Once you hung up you texted Kelly, the immediate flurry of emojis in response making you grin and miss her all over again. The final thing was a voice note from Penelope telling you she couldn’t wait for a hug. You re-listened to it on your flight to Abu Dhabi, lifting your spirits and making you feel like you could do it.

Max warned you with a text that he’d told Dan you were involved in the sponsorship event and that he was staying with McLaren until after the race. Once it was done he was moving over to the Red Bull hotel. They’d agreed to loan him out for the event only and you wondered what Christian had threatened to be able to get that much from them. You’d be gone by Saturday afternoon so it would be fine. You’d just see them for a few hours, leave, and get back on a plane.

You’d forgotten how easy it was to check into a hotel when a team had organised it, just giving your names and the keycards were released. As you turned to get your suitcase a three year old ran into your legs, wrapping her arms around your hips.

“I missed you!” Your manager looked confusedly as you hoisted P up onto your hip, Kelly running across the lobby to you.

“Missed you too, Princess P. What’s happening?”

“She’s supposed to be going to bed but saw you and ran.” Kelly gave you a one armed hug, the look in her eyes clear that you’d be having an in-depth discussion before the weekend was out.

“Uncle Danny gave me ice cream. He looked sad but when I asked he said it was ‘cause he didn’t have any so he got us all some!” You could tell from Kelly’s face exactly what had made your ex sad, but you shook your head and made yourself smile.

“Ice cream always makes me happy too. Go with your Mama and I’ll see you soon, ok? I have to work this weekend.”

“Will you be in the laranja building?” You shook your head at the Portuguese she dropped in when she was sleepy.

“I won’t be at the race. I’m going home before it happens, I have to work.”

“Oh.” She was gearing up for a tantrum but Kelly got in quickly and pulled her for a cuddle.

“I’ll get her to bed. Breakfast tomorrow?”

“Definitely.”

Emilie knew that you knew Christian. She knew you were familiar with how Formula One worked. But she had no idea of your complete backstory and why you were so against coming this weekend. So over a room service burger that tasted too much like the first time you’d stayed in this hotel with Daniel you did the brief highlights of the last five years of your life.

“So you dated a driver, were engaged, ended things, and he’s one of the guys we’re spending hours with on Saturday before practice?” Emilie asked as you lay back on your bed and groaned.

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“It explains why Horner’s assistant didn’t ask for your photo.” You propped yourself up on your elbows to look at her. “She said we needed paddock passes for the weekend and we needed photos for security to confirm. I offered to send her yours but she said your pass was still active.”

“Merde.” The French expletive slipped out as you lay back, taking a pillow and screaming into it. Emilie stared until you could get your shit together and sat up.

“I was at every race until the summer break, I only missed a race if I was sick. Daniel and I split up a week before Spa. He’d just come home after signing his contract ending deal and I couldn’t keep things going on my own anymore. I broke his heart but he didn’t cancel my pass…he wanted me to come to a race.”

“That’s why every week you always seemed sad on Fridays.”

“Yeah. Ugh. And he’s still upset and I’m still heartbroken. It’s going to be a mess.”

“We’ll get you through it.”

And you made yourself do it. Arriving on Thursday was harder than you’d expected, keeping your head down to avoid people who you’d known as friends and who you’d spent so much time with. So many of the Alpine team had been there when it was Renault, and Esteban jogged over to give you a hug before realising you were there for work. But the Frenchman couldn’t keep a secret, before long the paddock regulars were abuzz that you were back there without Dan by your side.

An advance team had installed the machines and set up the games, you were there to make sure that the branding was visible and nobody messed up on the social media side of things. Drivers came over to interact with the VR headsets as you stood near the back to get Emilie to deal with them. Sebastian refused, instead coming over to give you a giant hug.

“I should be congratulating you on your final race,” you murmured into his shoulder.

“I didn’t think I’d see you at another one.”

“Work calls.” You separated slightly at that, giving a shrug before indicating to the photographer to leave Hanna and the kids alone and waving to them.

“He misses you.” The words were tender but you shook your head, giving him a final hug before letting go and remembering just how restorative they were.

“It was the right decision. He deserved more than me.”

Before Sebastian could refute what you’d said one of his daughters pulled him away, leaving you to breathe a sigh of relief. The photo of him hugging you went up on the brand account, your still unused public profile tagged on it. But it being public meant more people came up to you. There were conversations you never wanted to have but you were forced into them.

“You’ve some nerve.” The paddock was nearly empty as you turned to see Lewis speak while you were tidying the final things away before leaving for the night. He stood there in a bright outfit, lights from Williams hospitality illuminating him.

“I don’t want to be here. But when my job calls, I answer. The last thing I want to do is hurt him.”

“Should have thought of that before—“

“You’re saying this like it was on a whim. Like I enjoyed it. I broke my own heart in the process and it’s not healing. But he deserves so much more than I can give him, and I deserve someone who can put me higher than tenth on their list. He couldn’t do that anymore. I don’t expect anyone to understand what happened and I don’t expect anyone to be friendly and forgive me. I just want to get through this weekend and leave on Saturday and pretend I was only here four times instead of five. So just…just ignore me or whatever you need to do, ok? I’ll do the same.”

You didn’t know where the words came from, months of hurt and anger coming out at Lewis who you’d barely spoken to before. The packing was finished and you locked the shutter in place, Lewis stepping back to watch you do it. Your arms were full and he tried to take the top box but you turned away.

“I’m a grown adult.”

“And I picked a fight I shouldn’t have touched. Can I help?” You got him to scan your paddock pass to get you out, walking in silence to the hire car Red Bull had organised. Everything was packed away when you finally had the courage to ask the question nobody was really answering. The two of you had barely been acquaintances, definitely not friends, so it was easier to ask him than anyone else.

“I know I have no right to an answer…but how is he?”

Lewis turned to look at you with the softest expression you’d seen on his face in a long time. “He’s fucking miserable. He turned up in Spa alone and we were worried about him, then the press realised you weren’t there and asked Michael if you’d dumped him because he was getting fired. None of us knew anything until Carmen told George you’d left the WhatsApp group and changed your number. Then we realised what had happened. That triple header was tough on him, I’ve never seen him so sad after that Monza DNF.”

You sighed and pulled your hair from your face in the desert night, making yourself listen to everything Lewis had to say.

“He’s doing better now but he’s still not great. I think he asked every one of us if we noticed anything, if he’d done something obvious. He doesn’t believe it’s not his fault even though he said it. Seb nearly punched him when he realised that he’d missed your anniversary. We were out in Singapore after the race there, that’s when it hit him. But the last couple of weeks he’s doing ok. He’s had some almost smiles.”

“Thanks for looking after him for me.”

“I always will, you know that. I’ll see you tomorrow and you can get some photos of me looking stupid.”

That night you were supposed to have dinner with Max and Kelly in the hotel restaurant but you texted an apology, instead going straight to your room and sobbing your heart out into the spare pillow as you mourned for the pain you’d caused.

Friday morning came too early. The last thing you wanted to do was get up and face the world but you still had a job to do. A cold shower helped the puffiness on your face, your makeup was impeccable even with the heat. The tricks you’d learned from being constantly photographed meant that you could get ready quickly and as soon as you closed your hotel room door you were on and ready for the day that you knew would have hugs and probably involve looking at people who hated you. But you and Emilie arrived together to open up.

Charlotte and Isa were the first two there, arriving as you powered on the devices calling your name. You were wrapped in a hug as Emilie looked on, the Ferrari men standing a few meters away and nodding to you when you separated from their girlfriends. You set them up playing tennis between them, laughing at the scenes in front of you. It didn’t take long for you to put your press face on, getting into a rhythm of greeting the people you knew by name and smiling at everyone else. But then he arrived and the fragile bandages on your heart split open.

“Can I play?” He was skinnier than when you’d last seen him, corded muscles too visible on his arms, face almost gaunt. His smile was there but it wasn’t a real one. You ached knowing this was your fault.

“Of course. Put this headset on and you’ll be in the game. The controllers act as your hands. Have fun.” You passed over each device one at a time as he was ready to go, keeping your skin away from his. You didn’t get to touch him. The VR had a number of games but at the last minute you changed it to a pattern bashing one that had always reminded you of his reaction games. It didn’t take long for Dan to get into a rhythm, barely missing a beat.

You couldn’t help but smile at how he moved, remembering the way he used to dance around the living room before pulling you up to dance with him. But then it was over and you schooled your face back to neutrality to see him and put the equipment back.

“And your score is…” It took a moment for the numbers to appear, but you couldn’t help but laugh. “33,333. Turns out it’s a lucky number after all. Congratulations, Daniel.” His full name felt wrong on your tongue but you;d lost the right to use a nickname for him.

“Thanks, B—“ He cut himself off and you nodded.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Sure.” As he walked away you saw Michael and Blake stand outside the unit waiting for him. You wanted to apologise for hurting their best friend, but it was clear from their faces they’d never want to talk to you again. You didn’t blame them.

The rest of the day went in a crawl for you and all you wanted to do was scream. He’d been right there in front of you but you couldn’t touch him. The tears were piling up at the back of your head waiting for a moment for you to let your guard down but you couldn’t. You weren’t allowed to cry until you were back in the hotel. The only saving grace was that Emilie was on closing up duties so you got to leave once FP2 was over. The screen in your unit had the stream up and you watched the practice go, staring at the people you’d been so close to before driving in circles. You slipped back to the hotel in the crowds that were leaving to hide away, deciding to get room service when you finished this bout of crying.

When would it stop? When would you finally be over him? If not over him at least when would it stop hurting like that August night? You were going to see him a couple of times a year at a minimum from now on, and if each moment hurt like this you wouldn’t survive it. You didn’t want it to be this painful. If you could go back in time to the woman who was so sure it was the right call you’d scream at her to change her mind. But you couldn’t. And he deserved the chance to be happy.

Knocks on your hotel room door disturbed the pity party, so you wiped your eyes to make yourself a little more presentable. Once the mascara streaks could be confused with artfully smudged eyeliner you stood straight and opened the door as the knocking continued.

“Emilie, I’m fine. I just need to get through tom…Daniel.” He was standing right in front of you. He looked as through the wringer as you felt, staring right at you and not looking away. There was less than a meter between the two of you and it was too much space and not enough at the same time. “How did you get my room number?”

“Penelope. She asked why I was sad earlier and I said I missed you, so she asked Max what your room number was. She’s crafty for barely more than a toddler.” You let out a wet laugh, trying to cover that you’d just been sobbing over him.

“I was supposed to go for dinner with them last night. Decided on a night alone in my room instead.”

“I was also supposed to be at dinner with them, but tonight. Which is my excuse for being here but I needed to come up here instead. I need to ask you one question, ok?”

You wanted to say no. You wanted to tell him to leave and go back to crying. You wanted to close the door and to forget that he’d appeared there, try to forget the five years you’d spent together. But you owed him this at the very least. After everything that had happened between you, you owed Daniel the truth. No matter how it hurt you.

“You deserve answers.”

He stopped at your confirmation, licked his lower lip and looked you straight in the eyes with his molten brown ones. It was like he was searching your soul for something you weren’t quite sure of, but whatever he saw gave him the strength to continue.

“Do you still love me?”

It wasn’t what you’d expected him to ask. Wasn’t what you’d imagined him asking in your wildest dreams. But he was there at your hotel door and you could never lie to Daniel Ricciardo as long as you lived.

“I don’t know how to stop loving you. And that’s what hurts so much about all of this.”

The words were barely out of your mouth when he closed the gap between you, broad hands on your waist as he pulled you close and kissed you soundly. It took a moment for you to realise what was even happening but you kissed him back, hands running through the hair you’d missed so much. He was there and you were in his arms and if this was the last kiss the two of you ever shared you were memorising all of it.

A ding from the elevator bell reminded you that you were semi in public, separating and breathing heavily. His hands were still on you, yours around his neck as a small smile - a real one - appeared on his lips.

“Can I?” You nodded back to him before bringing him into the room and settling on the small sofa with him. His arm went around your shoulders to pull you close, holding onto him for dear life. It didn’t feel like reality to you.

“I’m sorry. For not realising how much I was taking from you. For missing our anniversary. All of it. You…you deserved so much more than I gave you for our entire relationship. I’m just so sorry I didn’t realise what I was doing in time to save us.”

“Do you still love me?”

It was clear he hadn’t expected you to ask the question he’d asked as his body froze before looking at you. But you held his gaze the exact same way he’d held yours as you waited for your answer.

“You’re the love of my fucking life.”

It was a practiced move the way you leaned over and threw one thigh over his, pulling him into a bruising kiss as you were spread over his lap. Your forehead leaned against his, hands cupping his jaw as he held you tight against him.

“I was wrong to end things. And we have so much to talk about and work through, and please understand couples therapy is about to be compulsory. But I love you and you love me and if we still feel this way after four months then we’re worth saving.”

You watched the widest grin you’d seen on him in years spread across his face, a hand reaching up to run his thumb over your cheekbones before Dan brought you into a lingering kiss.

He cancelled dinner, citing that he was nervous about tomorrow in the text to Max. Instead he helped you pack a bag with a work outfit before the two of you snuck away from the hotel to get back to his. Michael and Blake were sitting in the lobby, the two men looking stern as you arrived with Dan beside you.

“What’s she doing here?” Michael asked. You wanted to shrink away but held your head up, Dan’s hand on yours.

“We’re trying again.” Three words that made you want to sing.

“But you…” he trailed off and you took the opening it provided.

“We were both a mess, and I know ending things was my decision. But we love each other and we’re trying to make it work.” You took a deep breath before saying the next words. “I owe both of you the biggest thanks for looking after him while I wasn’t there. I made the biggest mistake of my life walking away, and I can’t thank you enough for keeping him going.”

The words softened them and you got nods, knowing that when Dan was in a car you’d get a lecture. But it’d be worth it.

“See you tomorrow. The two of you going to the paddock together?” Blake asked as Dan nodded.

“Yeah, we’ll be going early so she can open up. See you both there.”

It was quick to Dan’s room, the elevator door opening to Lando on his phone. You could have laughed at the way his jaw dropped seeing the two of you there, but Dan did it first.

“Hey, Mate.”

“But you’re…what? I was avoiding the VR all day cause I thought you wouldn’t want us hanging out? When did this?”

“Today. And come over tomorrow, I’ll give you a longer go. But you’ll have some tough competition to beat, I’m just saying.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll keep this quiet till tomorrow for you too.”

You spent that night talking, having the hard conversations neither of you really wanted to have. How you both needed to compromise, the races you would and wouldn’t attend. How he’d support you and do what he could to make life easier for you with the media and stop ignoring the crap that was said about you. And you promised to tell him when you were worried about something. But it was worth it to have Dan pull that familiar box out of his suitcase and open it.

“I couldn’t leave this behind. Don’t ask me why, but it’s come everywhere with me. Will you please, please marry me?”

“Of course I will.”

Getting ready the next morning was terrifying. It wasn’t just the publicity, but his family were about to arrive and you hadn’t seen them since the break up and now you were back together. As you began to overthink Dan realised, handing you one of his new merch shirts to wear to the paddock. You put your work one underneath, but this was your way to prove exactly what was happening. It was the two of you and nothing else would matter.

Michael was outside the hotel room door when you were walking out, and the man was surprised when you hugged him. He hugged you back after a moment and you looked up to him.

“Thank you. I’m sorry for all of it, and Dan and I have talked about it. But thank you for being there for him when I couldn’t be.”

“Please don’t do it again?”

“Never.” He caught sight of your ring and smiled, hugging Dan and clapping his back. The three of you got into the car and made it to the circuit, your phone beeping with texts from Emilie asking where you were. You promised you’d be there in a minute and got an eye rolling emoji in return.

“Are you ready, Babe?” Dan asked as he put it into park and you nodded while gathering up your bag.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The photographers were taking shots of both of you entering, hands firmly clasped together until you had to separate to swipe in. A hair tie was keeping the oversized shirt from turning into a dress, and it was very obvious you were together. He didn’t stop until he was just outside your unit, leaning in for a final kiss before letting you go.

“See you in an hour for the unveiling?” He asked and you grinned.

“I’ll see you then. Good luck.”

“I don’t need it, I’ve got you back.”

Tags: @vroomvroommbtch @a-distantdreamer @sidcrosbyspuck @soleilgrec @clintsupremacy @hiphopdancer101universe @sheslikeacurse @footballbroadcast @ricsaigaslec

[rhetoricandlogic]

The Voices in Our Heads: Someone Like Me by M.R. Carey

Mahvesh Murad

Thu Nov 8, 2018 2:00pm

In M.R. Carey’s latest thriller, Someone Like Me, we first meet sweet, docile single mother Liz, as she tries to assert herself yet again to her aggressive ex-husband. After years of enduring an abusive marriage, Liz was finally able to divorce her husband and keep her children safe from what she feared would be potential danger to them, too. But the shared custody of the two children still causes much friction, with Liz’s ex Marc often pushing boundaries.

(Warning: the novel [and review] include scenes of domestic violence.)

On one such night, when he brings the children home much too late and Liz complains, he lashes out at her physically once again, with more aggression than before. But this time, unlike all the other incidences Liz had submissively borne, she feels something within herself break free, something stronger and more violent, and she is able to defend herself against Marc with equal brutality, slashing his face with a broken glass bottle as he chokes her. Liz herself is shocked, and worried as to what has come over her but grateful to be alive after the altercation.

Later, upon seeing a psychologist to discuss what happened to her in that moment, she is told it was probably a ‘dissociative episode’ brought on by trauma and fear. Liz tries to make sense of the single angry voice in her head that seems to be getting louder, and louder, and finds that she isn’t alone, and doesn’t seem to be imagining things. Eventually she gives in to Beth, the voice in her head, and it feels like something ‘rose as she fell. Spread itself like wings through her and above her and around her. A funnelled force like a gale hit her full on, snatched her up and hurled her headfirst into a blistering, unbearable cold.’

Meanwhile, not too far from where Liz lies dreaming of the voice in her head, 16 year old Fran is dealing with the deep psychological scars of having been abducted at age six by a highly disturbed young man who insisted she was some sort of demon. Though physically unharmed after the kidnapping, Fran has never managed to fully process and move on from her childhood trauma, and continues to have nightmares, memory loss and hallucinations. Most interestingly, she is in the constant company of a magical fox called Lady Jinx, who is her best friend, protector and not at all real.

Fran understands Jinx to be her an imaginary friend created by her subconscious soon after her abduction made her a well known but incredibly lonely and often teased child. Something shifted in Fran the day she was stolen away to a hotel room and held for hours: she has strange layered memories of the day—all horrific—but Jinx is the one positive remnant of the incident. But there are things about Jinx that don’t quite add up to this theory, and while Jinx is determined to keep Fran away from the trauma, grief and sadness of her past, Fran is equally determined to figure out why she isn’t able to make progress with her mental health, even after a decade of professional help and medications, both.

Connecting Fran and Liz is Zak, Liz’s 16 year old son and Fran’s classmate. He is the one who introduces the two women, unknowingly setting off a sequence of events that will change all their lives. Fran, upon meeting Liz, is able to see something strange in the older woman, a blurring of sorts, as if there are two of her within one space. Fran doesn’t understand what she is seeing, and though she has no idea that Liz has just had her first ‘dissociative episode’, she has seen enough in Liz to know when something changes in the older woman a few weeks later. It is enough to make Fran wonder further about her own ‘hallucinations’ and what really happened to her during her abduction that has caused this shift in her vision, and if it is at all connected to what is happening to Liz.

Liz and Beth. Fran and Jinx. Liz and Fran. Beth and Jinx.

All four are unique identities, all four share traumas and overlapping lives through time and space—or do they? Are they each simply an aspect of the others’ own personality, subconscious? One an id to the other’s ego? Carey is good at making his readers question this, with plenty of well timed reveals adding to the constant tension in this twisty yet controlled narrative. The perspective shifts between Liz and Fran, until Beth comes into the mix and we hear from her, too. Carey does a great job at creating empathetic characters who are not necessarily likeable—Beth, in particular, is straight up unsavoury. And yet, it is easy to feel her pain just as much as it is Liz’s, who is, quite simply, a nice woman It’s a small cast of clear, true voices at play in Someone Like Me, and Carey is just as skilful at creating a deeply satisfying narrative that comes full circle here as he was with brilliantly plotted The Girl With All The Gifts.

But this isn’t just a thriller—it’s also a sensitive and smart commentary on domestic abuse and it’s traumatic aftermath, not just on the victim herself but on the family as a whole; on childhood trauma, compartmentalisation, defence and coping mechanisms. It’s an exploration of how love can drive us to do strengths we’d never expect, but so can hate and fear. It’s about the demons that exist within us, and the angels too, and how it’s never quite certain which aspects of our secret selves are supporting us or harming us. Sure, it’s also about metaphysical slipstreams in time and space—or are those just slipstreams between our conscious and subconscious minds? Carey is clever, and so he leaves the answers to his readers.

Someone Like Me is available from Orbit.

[a-writer-and-musician-words]

11/30/18, 2:41 PM

THE HEAVY-HANDED CLINICIAN BY TIMOTHY JOSEPH GEISINGER

In a place far beyond the outer reaches of my memories, I grasped no uncertain realities: the thin-bearded, heavy-handed clinician, over the innumerable years, had done his best to kill me. In the year 1968 when the Vietnam conflict as it was dubbed burned grooves of pain and loss into my synapses. The synapses fired less often during that tragic year. Many young, heroic men sacrificed their lives for a cause that the common army soldier failed to comprehend. The D.C. Hawks composed top secret documents and used a variety of colored chalk lines on forest green chalkboards one after the other to strategize, to deploy troops and to hopefully win an unbeatable guerilla warfare far from the states, far from home. Young wives expected their newlywed husband and often newly minted father to return soon enough, after having given everything for the US patriotic cause; to rush laughingly with a great sense of relief into their waiting arms and to scoop up off the stony earth their never forgotten son, or daughter, their young family practically swooning over their homemade hero back from the overseas war. It didn’t work that way though, not exactly. The twenty somethings who were often the grunts, the privates, the guys who were assigned KP, peeling bag after bag of Idaho russet potatoes while cursing the upper echelon that brought him to a degraded part of a foreign land muttering that “This damn place is the worst, so f-In unfair.

Unjust.” Maybe the young husband and dad to Hillary and Frank, maybe he wasn’t far off. It was an unjust war, wasn’t it? The D.C. Hawks, they held all the cards and close to their vest at that! They were the old, entrenched men who sacrificed little, standing pointing and drawing on blackboards, deploying troops here and there, to take a bloody hill, or else maybe to charge a hidden enemy encampment, or else to retreat, hopefully to safety. Not always.

What was safe about being shot at by sniper fire from Chinese exported AK47s with seemingly endless ammunition control and a little boy or girl who sobbing walks easily into the midst of the longing men, who are safely behind their own lines; yet the little foreign kid has a live grenade tucked neatly in the elastic band of their cotton underwear? Seemed like an innocent kid, just needed some help. Maybe I should have been more loving. Maybe we shouldn’t trust any of the Viet Cong people. After all, we’re the invaders. This is their homeland. What right do we have to be here? Miranda, my wife, older by five years, and a baby on the way, me longing for hearth and home, barely out of Basic. I need her. And I love her. The really important thing, though, is that I know she loves me and we love baby on the way. I wanted to name her Zoe; that is if she’s a girl and Zak if he’s a boy. She wants to name her Molly, kind of because her name also begins with the letter M. But also because of our shared child’s song, a made famous Irish melody: “Cockles and Mussels” (Molly Malone). Both of us, though we didn’t meet until being in the same English essays class at the local community college, loved that song. Yet, we loved the song in a unique way; almost as unique as if we are snowflakes, not accumulated snowfalls. Miranda told me, actually, she sung Molly Malone to me, sonorous alto vocal but upbeat, in my elder parents’ living room in Kent, Washington; though we had moved there only for a short while when I was two because my dad was offered a position as an apprentice mechanical drafter for a start-up called THE LAY-OUT. Miranda has the kind of singing voice that even thousands of miles of separation I can hear as if we again are in my parents’ living room on that fated afternoon.

“Miranda, play the song again. I want to sing it with you,” I said. “You knew the song?” She looked wistfully at my clear blue eyes.

“Yeah. I’m surprised you never knew that. I can’t play guitar like you, but I can keep a melody.” I almost nudged her free shoulder in ply.

“I don’t doubt that. Okay.” Then she strummed the first guitar chord and we sang. Miranda and I and now the baby inside her womb. We are singing a song, a duet. We are singing of our shared love, about being newlyweds, about being the lovebirds others have rightfully called us, of our future together, of the eventual birth of Zoe, Zak or Molly or Mark John, or whomever he would be. We were hopefully going to know…together, hand clasped in hand, lips locked mouth to mouth. Resuscitated. Life gifted to dry dead bones. But, now. Damn.

Miranda I cried. I miss you. I am kissing your waiting mouth, pouty pink, swollen lips. I am tightly holding onto your hand because…I think I may never get back, back to you, back to our unborn child, back to the United States of America, back to the life we are destined to share together. As it is written in the legal marriage decree: “Till death do we part. Never leave nor forsake you. I promise Miranda to love and to hold you…” Oh God, why? I know it was me, maybe it was all me. I was the one who wanted to fight for the safety of the Chinese threat upon These Our United States of America. What if, just as in December 1941, the Japanese kamikaze pilots bombed the unsuspecting aircraft carriers and the defenseless Honolulu medical facilities because they could – sent by the Japanese Emperor Hiro, himself, as a formidable military invasion the likes that no one has experience so horrifically since? That was my overwhelming concern; for the lives of my wife and our unborn child, but also for the security of our vulnerable nation. Really, I don’t like that I am an idealist. I want to be practically minded like a business executive bent on amassing wealth and securities for the company he works for yet secretly desires to one day overtake the whole operation, become the new CEO, own more than fifty percent of the company’s shareholdings and expand, expand far into his stocks-controlled company, newly renamed to fit his agenda, and to make room for his ascendancy. Just like a monarch ruling in the 13th century, replete with a court jester (who could have been me) and nobles, feudal lords, thin, beautiful maidens, plenty of cows, several Bantam roosters, and more animals than even he wanted to number. Horses to ride as freely as he saw fit across the wide expanse which was from the royal stables to the outer lands, all under his watchful eye; the nearby smaller, conquered kingdoms making tribute. I digress.

I am an idealist, but I’m not hopeful. My nearest and dearest friend, the one who helped me through the obstacles course, I couldn’t have even graduated without his constant help and his care toward what then was only another soldier in Basic training, at dusk last night was shot clean through his Adam’s apple. Ironic. I don’t say curse words, not usually, but Shit! Alvin Yeltser is worm food. I know I’m being a bit graphic, but so is war. All wars are graphic in nature, not for little eyes and ears...that is, unless the little eyes and ears are attached to the kids who uncontrollably sob, finding an easy way into the base camp, where we all are relaxed, some of us smoking a Marlboro straight, some of us shooting the shit. And then, before anyone is able to prevent the tragic thing you can hear in the silent overly humidity in view of a green grove of bushes and trees overgrown and waiting like an African tiger to pounce on an unsuspecting weary, old, gray elephant getting a drink of water at the local watering hole. You can hear a pin drop! BAM.

The surviving company, a hodge-podge of army green canvas shirts and pants, that’s all any of us are over here, a bunch of selected numbers – by the D.C. Hawks, we, me included are on pickup duty. It was worse, way worse than scrubbing dirty potatoes and slicing them by hand using our army knife. Way more disgusting! Who in their right mind would volunteer for this kind of essential duty? I have never fully been in my right mind. I used to see a thin- bearded male, the one who I call the heavy-handed clinician. It was he who suggested I complete the many self-assessments, various personality and IQ tests, a whole battery of them. Yet it was also he that strongly suggested I am slightly off my rocker. He threw the clinical psychiatric diagnosis straight in my face. The three connecting words which would define most of the following years to today felt like shell shock. “I believe you have what we in the field call Schizo-affective disorder.” I wondered, what the hell is that? Dr. Cavanaugh went on to explain as if he heard my thoughts. “You have some separation from reality, perhaps because of the effects of trauma or perhaps from your parents’ genes, perhaps a combination of both.” I interrupted his next words. “If that’s the schizo- part, than what does ‘affective’ mean?” He smiled weak and wan and said, “I was getting to that. Affective for you means that you have Bipolar I as opposed-” I was growing uneasy. “As opposed to what, Dr. Cavanaugh?”

“As opposed to Bipolar II,” he finished the sentence. Then he stared at my face searching for a connection with my downcast eyes. The tan rug seemed to swallow me up in my fear.

“Reggie. I will help you overcome this illness if I am able. I will at the very least help you to manage its symptoms.”

“So what are the symptoms?”

“Like I began to say, the schizoid tendencies you seem to have lead you to believe what is false is real and perhaps what is real is false. Your grip on reality is not tight and mostly unshakeable like most people. This may have been caused by the extensive physical, sexual, verbal and other emotional abuse you received as a young child, you told me about, that originated with your family, mostly at the hand of your parents. The Bipolar I also known as manic-depressive illness “mixed states” is a tough one. Sometimes your illness will appear very much like Attention Deficit Disorder or ADHD and sometimes you feel as though you are on the Top of The World – you’ll start many exciting, evocative creative projects but you will get distracted and hardly ever be able to finish anything you have begun; whether a short poem, a story or the lyrics of a love song that Miranda would desperately like to hear, the Siren Song will almost always capture you and unfortunately, destroy the very essence of you; that is, unless you take the prescription for medicine I am writing down for you. Here. Any comments, questions or concerns, Reggie?”

“I don’t know anything about Lithium, or this other one, Navane – what are they exactly?”

“The Lithium is meant to be taken to control your rollercoaster-like mood swings. The Navane will help you to focus on the important things in life; not to be distracted by every enticing offer; to help you have a symptom management tool. Really, that’s all Lithium and Navane the neuroleptic are.”

That was the first time I had heard the word ‘neuroleptic.’ Instead of asking Dr. Cavanaugh its meaning I engendered an educated guess. I thought the “neuro” is defined as the brain like in neurology, the study of the brain. I guessed that –leptic like the word epileptic meant seizure, but I was puzzled as to how a “brain seizure” was going to help me manage or overcome my schizo-affective disorder symptoms.

I was to hear the fateful word Schizoaffective; not only that poisoned idolatrous, highly misunderstood and over used word, but Paranoid Schizophrenic, Narcissicism, BiPolar Classic 1 with psychotic features? Really, what? How can a mental illness, disorder, malady, dysfunction, set of character defects, have to do anything with a good thing like “features?” Who is the crazy one then. Maybe the psychiatric-medicine-prescribing CNP or psychiatrist? Maybe they are the ones who’s has a head that needs to be examined.

No doctor even seemed to pick up on the obvious: I am a survivor of guerilla warfare! I am one paranoid son of a “B”. I crouch at the sudden noises all around me. I hit the spring grown grass lawn or the stony ground so D’m’ed easily I am used to lying down on the job; so used to seeing life from a lower point of view as if I might be a dog. Oh, I am. A war dog, hence the dog tags hanging around my neck. The last ID in the theater, to be picked off so easily just like my war buddy recently killed, stricken to death by a clean shot driven through his young man’s Adam’s apple. !968. A sucky year. The year of my eventual demise. the lost year as I would come to know it as.

1968. The Lost Year in a Lifetime of Years.

My wife thinks I may be crazy, more crazy than the effects of PTSD from motherly neglect and fatherly hitting and punching. Why do you think I went into the army in the first place; it wasn't for my better health. I joined the army to get away from my parents. The only thing is I went deep into a worser situation. I can barely make sense of the war. Why am I here fighting a people I don't understand, who peek in and out of the bushes with a sniper rifle butt. And continually use little girls and boys to blow my buddies to kingdom come. I'm having a hard time acclimating to civililian life. I can't understand beyond the war. So many good guys have died. The whole thing troubles me.The Congs some not so nice guys call em gooks - they're not to blame. We were the invaders, attempting to overtake them in their home territory. They weren't kind. But war is hell: flame throwers, sniper shots to the head, grenade pins dropped unaware. There weren't jet strafing except by the US; but their was warfare on the ground that was nearly matchless. The pain inflicted on the US ground forces was not to be overestimated. The misery of head wounds and exploded limbs unparalleled.

I want Miranda but she is slipping from my grasp. She told me she doesn’t want to deal with my head wounds anymore. I tell her I was never shot in the head. She says, “That’s not what I mean. You are so broken. You can’t even forgive your Mom and Dad. Reggie, they did the best they could. I know you’ve heard that so many times but it’s true. I never meant to cause you harm. They didn’t either. You need to forgive them their inadequacies, for every mistake they ever made raising you, or, I won’t be with you. Your unforgiving attitude of them is a poison I won’t put up with.” I cried, “Miranda, hon’ I will get over the pain. Some day. The war killed me. It killed us.” Miranda faced me then as fully as she could, with enough tears in her eyes, to start a small river. “The war killed us.” The recognition of the fact made my head swim. Tears flowed and I looked over at Zoe who was shaking a plastic rattle while she stood braced up against the side of the foldable crib. “Zoe,” I murmured. I knew Miranda was going to leave me and that she would gain full custody of Zoe was likely too. After all I was a mess. Miranda was the sane one. She had the full time job. She owned the condominium. She paid for our only vehicle, a Ford Aerostar. That she worked as an elementary education instructor meant a lot to me. I earned government disability. It’s true I should be working and taking care of Miranda and Zoe. It is no excuse, well it probably isn’t an excuse, that the Viet Nam War inflicted more than just physical wounds and there were some of those. The psychological wounds were like deafening sounds of machine gun fire.

You aren’t telling me what to think. I have to break out of the bonds I was put in. Maybe I put myself in some of my bonds too. I do feel. Like I blame myself for some of who I am today. I want to lay down and curl myself into a tight ball. I want to sleep throughout the night and into the next day and throughout the night again. I could make a sport of it.

Laughter follows the pain which melts the brain.

Inconsequential doings

Closeted fears as bullets whirr

Don’t touch me there,

It’s my private parts -

Mommy said never let a stranger near.

I don’t know why I am writing this book. I have not published anything of significance yet. This book is mostly nonfiction - memories get garbled, facts get skewed. I cannot start with the beginning though I am tempted to do so. The beginning, my beginning, was so depressing, so oppressive. How can that be? Are not the moments in the womb warm and fuzzy, loving and relaxing? Well, no, not really. My mom and dad were at odds with one another. My mom’s ‘happily ever after’ dream had been smashed by her supposed white knight in shining armor. But that’s the beginning. I want to begin the story somewhere in the middle. The days of personal anguish when a biochemical brain disease was issued forth from the cosmos or God, pulsating throughout an unsuspecting body, with a name, schizoaffective disorder. Ugh.

Climbing stealthily into the gnarled oak tree, branches splayed in several directions I felt like kid superman. My Lois Lane at my side. I may have been six but I knew then that I would love her, the girl next door, for the rest of my life. I wasn’t crazy like Anthony Padua the boy who must have thought he could fly like Superman and jumped from his Dad’s third floor tenement house, a rental he had in South Chicago.

There was almost always something nuts going on in Chicago, even then. The Valentine’s Day Massacre occurred in Chicago. Gangsters littered the streets. A big fire practically burned the whole town down. But Chicago only got worse. The big town became a place I wanted to visit but never live there. Now Shy Town is a place I wouldn’t even want to visit: gunshot soaring through the air, night and day. Kids getting knifed. Bomb threats made good in elementary schools. Just like Gotham City, The Windy City needed a superhero. I am glad that I never moved to Chicago. My parents were as afraid of the big town on the Michigan River just as much as me. Maybe they were afraid for me.

Who will be Chicago’s savior? I decided to start a superhero gym of sorts. I live in Minneapolis, a Minnesotan mid sized town hundreds of miles north of Chicago. I knew Chicago needed superheroes to save its neck or Chicago would be underwater; not only would the city get a bad reputation that it couldn’t live down, no one would want to visit it, its tall skyscrapers, its stock and exchange building, its cool Lake Michigan waters.

“Lois?”

“Clark.”

I reached across a thick branch and touched her arm. “Its about time time to come down, don’t you think?”

“Yeah I suppose.” She smiled toward me and carefully embraced the trunk, sliding part ways down.

The years have gone strongly by. The autumnal leaves dropped from upward tree branches. Icy winters after their own fashion. Springy springs with the first Robin and its delicate light blue eggshell. Summer with the whirring of gluey green grasshoppers and garden toads, green frogs and painted turtles by the reeds and the slimy rocks.

There was the usual. Barbells. Chest strengthener. Chin up stations., even a swimming pool, albeit 10 by 20.

“Miranda, where are you, my love?” “Have I been bad because I lost my temper with you and Zak.”

“Reggie, I don’t know if I can ever forgive you. I love you but from very far away. Don’t follow me. You wouldn’t know where to look anyway. Give up on an Idyllic married life. I can’t let you see the kids. You scare them. You may not mean to but all the same. We’ll love you from a distance. Again don’t chase us down. You won’t easily find us. Good-bye.”

Those are the last words I heard in Miranda’s voice coming from somewhere inside of me; yet, I know those words to be true. I need to get to the gym and workout. I think I hate myself - for what I did to the two kids more than anything else, but also for destroying my already fragile marriage. Vietnam did me no favors.

Even so, Miranda was never to be blamed, not for separating from me after I returned from Vietnam, nor feeling burned out. Mental illness will do that to you.

The devil is Faust’s unwanted friend, drilling holes into his weakening soul.

And Faust lately has been ironically on Miranda’s mind, caught up in the grey edges of her ever titular mind. Maybe because her soon to be ex-husband was lost in the etchings of the Vietnam conflict, that which almost singlehandedly destroyed him. She didn’t know that he is a super hero. He barely knew it himself.

Chicago is not easy for him or for Miranda. His psychiatrist was not easy with Zak either, but that was okay. It had to be okay. Memories of Miranda and more importantly his faith in Christ had to sustain him, empower him to save others. He couldn’t be a super hero not without his faith.

Yet thank God that Miranda left him when she did and left him - left me, where she did. Saint Paul, Minneapolis. The frigid air surrounding me in the late Fall early winter. Before the wintry bitterness sets in for those creatures who desire a longer Fall, less ice and even, less snowfall. To some Minnesota Winters could be equated with the process of dying. I am not extraordinary or am I; yet I long to help, to guide, perhaps even to push people - God’s creatures - into safety, into health.

Miranda left me! Not for another man, but for what she deemed was her sanity. The divorce was messy like a typical divorce, but only because she wanted everything, including sole possession of our kids. I won visitation rights primarily because I had a long history of PTSD coupled with schizoaffective disorder. She plain just did not trust me with our kids, to have close, unsupervised visits. What made me mad was although I wanted to be involved with Daddy daughter events and father son events the court’s decisions fell in her favour.

I wish I could be a great thinker but my brain is mush. Thank God that He still accepts me the way I am, otherwise I don’t know what I would do.