She skimmed her shorts down her legs. They dropped around her ankles. She fit her fingers into the elastic waistband of her panties, which were violet like her bra, and skimpy. She pushed one side down, then the other, revealing a trimmed strip of pubic hair—then pulled them back up.

Teasing.

Finally she slid them down her thighs to her ankles. She stepped out of them, and her shorts. I kicked off my board shorts and boxers.

She settled on top of me, warm, tight, rocking, gripping, gliding.

Soundless.

4

Afterward, clothed again, we sat on the floor as we had before, almost as if nothing had happened. And I couldn’t believe something had happened. It had been so unexpected, spontaneous, surreal.

I felt lightheaded, amazed not only at what we’d done, but that we’d gotten away with it.

I also felt like total shit.

Pita cheated on me, I told myself.

We broke up.

I’ve done nothing wrong.

Only it felt wrong. Very wrong.

But right too.

“Can I ask you a question, Jack?” Elizaveta said.

“What?” I said.

“Why did you stop racing?”

“Oh,” I said, relieved. This wasn’t my favorite topic of discussion, but it was better than talking about what just happened between us, what it meant. “You don’t know?”

“I know about crash. Jesus told me. But that was one year ago. You are better, da? Why not race again?”

“Because I can’t.”

“But why?”

“I’m not better.”

“You look better.”

It was true. My body was fine and functioning. I’d bruised my ribs in the accident, fractured my wrist, and whacked my tailbone so hard I couldn’t sit comfortably for days. Even so, I was back in my Chevrolet within two weeks…yet I wasn’t the same. I was getting daily headaches that affected my racing, distracted me. At the CarsDirect.com 400 I hit an embankment with the driver’s side of my car. Halfway through the Cracker Barrel Old Country Store 500 I smacked the wall in Turn 2 and spun out. Then, a few days before the next race at Darlington Raceway, I was scheduled to do a media tour. However, I bowed out halfway through the day due to the worst headache yet.

My sponsors became worried. My PR guy wanted me to stay off the track. I stubbornly refused. The next race was the Food City 500 at Bristol Motor Speedway. Around lap 340 I developed another headache, this one so severe my crew chief threw in the towel at the next pit stop.

I ended up seeing three different doctors. None could answer for certain what was wrong with me. They simply advised me to slow down, get some rest, I’d feel better soon.

“I get headaches,” I told Elizaveta now. “Sometimes when they get bad, my vision gets blurry.”

She frowned. “That is problem?”