“Sweetheart,” he says softly, “you’re so young. He’s not the only man in the world you could ever be happy with. You could pick someone who is a hell of a lot less complicated.”
“I know that.”
Silence.
I clear my throat. “Dad, I wouldn’t be taking this risk if Caleb weren’t exceptional.”
“And you’re willing to deal with the very real fact that your reputation will be questioned, and you might lose your job because of him? You’ve dreamed of an opportunity like this, and you’re willing to risk it all ending before it even truly begins?”
The acidic feeling is like a tidal wave now. But when I think of Caleb, I have no doubt of what my answer is.
“Yes,” I say softly.
Dad is quiet as he turns into our neighborhood. When he pulls into our driveway, he idles the car before opening the garage door. “Isla, I’m not trying to hurt you. I just want to protect you.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to leave you with one last thing to think about, and I promise you I will never share my opinion on this again. But what you said about Caleb has given me a new worry.”
Confusion fills me. “What? What do you mean?”
“What if the media intrusion is more painful than he anticipates? Will it impact him mentally? Hurt him on the track?”
I bite my lip, remembering how it did impact him when he was in Formula 3, and his driving suffered.
But he was sixteen then. Not the mature man he is now.
“No. Caleb is a completely different person on the track,” I say with confidence.
“But he hasn’t had a girlfriend to worry about before,” Dad points out. “This is new for him. Or what if this reignites old trauma, like you suggested? Will he be able to maintain a relationship with you, despite what he says or what his intentions are?”
I think I’m going to be sick.
“Think carefully, Isla. Caleb might be mature for his age, but he’s still young. I have to question if he can handle the reality of your situation once it becomes public. He might say he can withstand it, but can he? I’d think carefully on that. Because I don’t know many men his age who could. And you could endup losing everything—and I mean your careerandhim—as a result.”
* * *
“Thank you for wanting to go out tonight,” I tell Hadleigh.
“You mean, thank you for being your pseudo psychologist, best friend, and Uber driver?” she asks, her blue eyes sparkling at me.
I take a sip of my vodka soda as we sit on the patio of a bustling rooftop restaurant overlooking South Beach. The terrace is filled with outdoor sofas and low-set tables, and Hadleigh and I are seated together on a sofa with a view of the street below. Tropical plants surround us, and white lights twinkle everywhere, and if I weren’t completely jet-lagged and fighting emotional turmoil, I’d be enjoying this.
But truth be told, I just needed my best friend this evening.
“Yes, you are all those things,” I say, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear as the breeze blows it around.
“So what’s going on?” she says, taking a sip of her mango iced tea.
“We need to speak in code. I can’t use someone’s real name in public.”
A mischievous glint enters Hadleigh’s eyes. “Okay. Let me think of the perfect name for him.”
“Nothing perverted!”
“Me?” she asks oh too innocently.
“Yes, you. Please make his nickname G-rated.”