After tossing and turning for two hours, I give up. It's freezing, but I'm too lazy to go back to my room to grab a sweater, so I waddle up inside a blanket and lounge on the couch.

        A movie doesn't do much to help. I give up on it within thirty minutes, relegating all of my attention to my phone. In need of a pick me up, I pull up videos Maverick sent earlier, hoping they'll bring a smile to my face. And though I don't doubt Maverick of all people can force rays of sunlight between the darkest of storm clouds, I'm surprised at how much it compels me to laugh.

        "Hey, Stevie, thought you'd want to know how everything's going." Maverick sticks his tongue out, holding up a peace sign, complete with a bloody towel wrapped around his finger. "I shouldn't be allowed to make breakfast. Ever. Hope your night went better than my today. Love you, queen, bye!"

        He sent the video around noon so he couldn't have known how poorly it would age. I force back a dejected sigh, skipping to the next video.

        "Say hi to Stevie, Everleigh."

        "Kingston, get that out of my face."

        "But it's Stevie."

        "Stevie, respectfully, I love you, but Kingston, get the fucking camera out of my face."

        "You're no fun–Ow."

        Next.

    "Stevie, I hope you're willing to be my witness when I sue Meadowlark for assault. First, she hits me with a pillow–"

        "You snuck up on me–"

        "Now she's stabbing me."

        "You're right, I should just let you bleed out. You fuckin' spoon."

        "Hey."

        "For the love of God, stop moving."

        Next.

   "All doooone!" Maverick holds up his newly stitched finger and shifts in the camera to Everleigh cutting up berries. "Thank you, nurse Meadowlark."

        The last thing I see before the screen goes dark is Everleigh flipping off the camera.

        It goes against my better judgment, but the idea of not knowing pains me enough I choose to suffer the consequences of looking up the pictures.

        Ignorance isn't always bliss. Sometimes it's a gnawing feeling at the back of my throat, waiting for me to choke. Sometimes it's the mosquito bite I can't help but itch and itch until I'm left bleeding. Ignorance is a scar reminding me of all the ways in which I'm not prepared for this life I live.

        Pictures are circulating of Bruno and me walking into his hotel the night of the Melbourne race. The first are pictures of what looks like acquaintances catching up after a long time apart. By the third, we're walking too close for it to be innocent, and the fourth is me back against a wall where Bruno leans in to kiss me.

        There's no denying what's happening or what is going to happen. But denial isn't the problem. I have no issue admitting I have casual sex. It's the fact this information is something anybody feels entitled to.

        This is what I hate most about living in the public eye. People talk about how it's part of the lifestyle and something we should get used to, anticipate or use to our advantage. As if making a deal with the devil to leverage our soul and score brownie points with leeches whose sole purpose is to invade our privacy is what I should do with my position in life.

        It's bullshit.

        No matter how they spin it, no matter how the average person will likely look at these pictures and think they're nothing. Something I should know better than to do. It's my fault.

        They don't think about how some sleazy guy in a club can see these pictures and jump to obvious conclusions he'll use as gun powder to light up my entire night, my self-respect the poor casualty. How he'll say one single sentence that makes me feel like I'm in the wrong. Because a woman who dares own her sexuality can only be the perpetrator of her own demise in their eyes. I don't need to see it to know Bruno will never face judgment for the mutual, consensual events of this night.

        Even speaking up about these issues puts a target on my back. The idea my relationship with two men who participate in the same sport, whatever those individual relationships may be, can be twisted to make me guilty of a nonexistent crime, or potentially turned into a catalyst for endless think pieces.

        Anger ripples inside of me like hot magma before the ache in my bones washes it away. Fire turns to ash, and I'm left fatigued at the despair that wrings me dry. Part of me thinks I'm overreacting. The other part of me is angry at that part of me for thinking that way.

        Maybe I am making it a bigger deal than it needs to be. Or maybe I hate the idea my worth in some stranger's eye can be tied to the men in my life, and that strangers will be confident enough to fling their deranged judgments on me because I don't play along with their games.

        Before the tears prickling at my eyes fall, a sudden sound puts me into alert mode. I turn around, exhaling in relief when Seira walks around the corner.

        "What are you doing up?" I ask. It's half-past four.

        Seira sinks next to me and stretches long across the sofa. I smooth my hand over her hair, feeling a sense of nostalgia as her usual shampoo scent of gardenias washes over me. It reminds me of those sleepovers in high school, sneaking out to lay down in her neighborhood's playground and look up at the stars. A gust of wind would rock the rickety bridge back and forth, and I would become a lowly buoy in a sea of Seira and her whispered dreams.

"Think we can stay up long enough to convince Jun we beat him?"

       "Not a chance. He'll know we never went to sleep in the first place."

       "True," I half sigh, half yawn.

        A beat of silence suspends between us and the lone dinosaur on the screen. I deem myself brave enough to come between two equally terrifying monsters.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Instead of answering, she snuggles closer, tugging my blanket around her shoulders.

       "I feel like I should but the more I think about it, the more I want to track that guy down and beat his ass. And then rip him a new one. In several different languages."

        I stare down at her sleepy eyes overcome with the weight of our terrible night. Aside from the obvious bullshit, it sucks having a night she's been looking forward to end the way it did.

        "Don't give me that look," she pouts. "He was such a dick to you. He deserves to get his windows bashed in."

        "He also said really shitty things to you."

        "Doesn't matter."

        I tap her nose. "It matters. You always matter."

         Her eyes flash with hurt, imperceptible to anyone else. But the five of us have been through everything together. If any can weave between the rocky shores of our souls, it's the people in this house.

        "I feel....tired."

        I nod slowly, letting her fill in the blanks.

        "I guess it's easier to put on a brave face because I want to stick up for my best friend and pretend like that shit doesn't hurt. I hate that men like him get away with a slap on the wrist while we have to live with the effects of their hate. It's just....tiring."

        "I know. It sucks. It really sucks."

        She runs a hand angrily through her hair. I close my eyes and lean back against the sofa, reaching out to intertwine our fingers together; women against the world.

...

I don't go back to sleep.

        I know I'll regret it later, but when Moxie invites me over for breakfast with the promise of the best eggs benedict I'll ever have in my life, the offer is impossible to turn down.

        The drive is forty-five minutes with light morning traffic, but I don't mind. When I'm alone at the house with only my thoughts, they can be too loud, leaving me to overthink every minor inconvenience in my life.Having alone time while driving is a different experience. I crank up the music and forget the rest of the world. Not even my own thoughts penetrate the bliss of a good drive.

        I waddle up to the house like a lost baby bird, glancing around the unfamiliar territory. When Moxie answers the door, she's dressed in a flowy black floral dress with a bright blue swimsuit peeking out from underneath.

        "Come on in!" She ushers me inside.

        Moxie's house is designed with reckless abandon. Looking at one room for a second, away for another, and then back again is like viewing a new room. Every inch is covered in posters, knick-knacks, and collections of random items I can only think of as art.

        The kitchen is no different. She has to move a stack of magazines out of the way in order for me to sit on one of the stools placed around her kitchen island.

        "You have no idea how badly I needed this," I moan when she slides the plate in front of me.

        Moxie smiles before stepping around the counter. "Figured you could use a homecooked meal. And, no offense to your bandmates, but some time away from men."

        A chuckle slips past my lips. "A break from men is good. Even the ones I like."

        Moxie laughs under her breath, taking small bites off her own plate. She keeps the conversation to a minimum, allowing me to take things as slowly as I want.

        "I honestly thought I was going to be asking you over for brunch," she admits. "Didn't think you'd be up this early."

        I shrug. "I'm not usually up this early."

        "Couldn't sleep?"

        My mouth twists into a pained smile.

       "Understandable." After waiting for a few beats, she continues. "Kinda bummed I missed it. Would've been nice to sock that guy in the face."

        "I'm surprised Seira didn't," I say, though I understand she was dealing with her own hurt. On any other given night, if she wasn't targeted in his attacks, the guy would have dealt with more than just a drink in his face. "She's doing okay, too. Couldn't sleep for a while either but she was knocked out by the time I left."

        "That's good. She deserves some rest." Moxie smiles, turning back to her plate. "Mick wanted me to tell you good morning and that he hopes you're feeling better."

        "Tell him I said thanks, I appreciate it. I kind of thought you might live together."

        "I, uh—" Moxie pauses to find her words. "I didn't ask you here to force you to talk about anything. I wanted to make sure you knew I'm here if you do need someone to talk to. There are things that suck about living in the spotlight and things that are downright shit, and having women you trust to confide in about those things is important. As a woman. So, you know. Here. Not that you have any shortage of women in your life you can trust. But consider me one of them."

        I swallow back my bite of hash browns and nod, grateful for the support. "Thank you. I'm here for you, too. Whenever."

        Accepting my short response, Moxie nods once before returning to her breakfast. We eat the rest in silence. Being there for emotional support doesn't always require talking. Some of the best moments in life are when we can share comfortable silences with great individuals.

        At some point, the silence breaks briefly. The thought flutters out of me so quickly I don't have a chance to capture it.

        "Do you ever doubt you might be where you are if it weren't for having your brother by your side?" I ask frankly. Not because I want it to be true, but because some realities can't be ignored, no matter how much we try to. "Like, maybe people wouldn't take you as seriously if it was just you?"

        Understanding flashes in her eyes. "All the time."

...

Since I'm not up for driving back yet, we decide on watching some TV.

        Moxie lounges on her chair with her legs over the side as she flicks through channels. When a sports channel appears with a clip from an F1 race last year, I ask her to stop.

        Brendon Ellis and Idris Johnson appear on the screen, high-fiving each other after one of their many 1-2 finishes of the last season, the most recent being the grand finale.

        "And what do you think about the rumors Idris is looking to retire at the end of this season?" One of the commentators asks.

        "Listen—I think we've all heard this story before. Rix Tsui 'retired' for one year before rushing back onto the grid. Daniel Martinez is forty-two and still driving after retiring for two. For a lot of these drivers, it's driving until the opportunities no longer present themselves, and after extending his record-winning championships last year, it's hard to imagine him giving all that up when he's still at the top of his game."

        "True, but we can't ignore the threat of Brendon Ellis who many are propping up to become the new face of Windsor once Idris retires."

        "Brendon Ellis is good. Probably the best on the grid aside from Johnson, and that's saying a lot because a few of those drivers have championships he has yet to snatch himself. But if he's smart, he'll keep himself attached to Johnson so he can learn as much from him as he can."

        "I think he's already making good on that. The margins between Ellis and Johnson last season is smaller than any of the previous Windsor pairings. Regardless of how new he is compared to some of his fellow drivers, Ellis has exactly the kind of race craft and mentality to win multiple championships. It's not a matter of if. It's a matter of when."

        "Let's hope all works out for him because we know getting to the top of the podium isn't just about a driver's strengths. There are a lot of other moving parts that get a driver and constructor up there, including a bit of luck sometimes. And with the news of Idris possibly retiring, there's already been talk of Rix Tsui making a switch over to Windsor. He was rumored to have been eyed before Brendon Ellis was eventually signed on, but team leaders feared that having the two vastly different championship winners driving for them could cause some friction. Tsui is an all-time favorite on the scene, and he appears to have a good relationship with Ellis so it might not be a bad move on their part."

        "Maybe not," the commentator laughs. "But we know how easily friendships corrode when there's a championship dangling in front of them. I guess we'll have to see where this all goes further down the season. All I know is the world better be keeping an eye on Brendon Ellis. He's destined to be the next big thing. Mark my words."

        "Okay, sorry, you can go back to—" I flick my hand in the air.

        Moxie bites back a laugh, returning to flipping through channels in search of the perfect comfort watch. I don't protest when she settles on New Girl reruns.

        "Didn't take you for a sports fan."

        Nervous laughter tickles my chest. "I wouldn't say I'm a sports person."

        "Just a Brendon Ellis person then."

        I choke on my spit.

        Moxie bursts into laughter at my stunned expression.

        "I was kidding," she manages to cough out. "I don't spy on my friends in the tabloids but I noticed you two were friends."

        "Yeah. I've been to one race. For Windsor. Because they paid for us to join them."

        "Relax." Moxie shoves my shoulder. "Never met him but Bash seems nice. And anyone that can hold their own against Idris Johnson is seriously talented." She tosses the remote onto the coffee table and settles back into her seat. "That Monza win in 2020?" She lets out a low whistle. "Was a thing of beauty. Truly."

        "You watch Formula One?"

        "Dad grew up watching it." She shrugs. "Mick's a little more into it but I've been following it for a while."

        "Have you ever been to one?"

        "Dad took us to the Montreal Grand Prix when I was in school." Moxie smiles to herself, a faraway glaze in her eyes. "Nothing gets your blood pumping like being at a Grand Prix."

        I think back to the weekend in Melbourne, watching cars race past us in blurred streaks and sharp notes of gasoline and thunderous engine roars.

        "Guess it's kind of obligatory for me to ask if you have a favorite team?"

        "I'm partial to Forza. They had a driver, Kamaka Morris, that won four championships with them. He was my dad's favorite driver so I kind of grew up learning how to worship him."

        "Kamaka," I hum. "Sounds Polynesian."

        "Māori, I think."

        Mental note: look up Kamaka Morris.