Page 53 of Spin Control

Half an hour later, Jane and I are at an outdoor table, chilled glasses of chenin blanc and a dozen oysters in front of us. As Jane spoons mignonette sauce into her briny treat and I liberally dash Tabasco into mine, she says, “I genuinely can’t recall the last time I had oysters.”

“I’m guessing they’re not popular in the Houston suburbs.”

She snorts. “It’s not as if you can’t find them. It’s just that Todd thinks they’re disgusting and refuses to order them.”

“Boo. It’s not as if he has to eat them.”

“Right?” she says, holding up her oyster. “Bottoms up.”

I clink mine with hers, and then the two of us slurp them back. My sister grins and I return it. This is what I’ve been craving. All of my favorite memories involve Jane, and the thing I resent most about adulthood is that you rarely have time to hang out with your favorite person.

“Alright, enough oyster talk,” Jane says. “Regale me with stories. Tell me everything.”

So I do. I tell her about the world of F1, about Chalondra and Lu and Sarah, about my political machinations in Miami, about the glitz of Monaco and the thrill of meeting Prince Étienne Beaumont. She shrieks at that and demands to know why I didn’t call her immediately.

But I did reach out to her that weekend. She never responded.

I get it. With three kids to wrangle, a house to manage, lessons to plan and teach, and content to create, I’d wager her daily to-do list puts mine to shame. That means something’s gotta give—and that thing is me. But I’m not going to guilt trip her for being an inattentive sister on our night out together.

“It sounds like things are nonstop,” Jane says. “I know you shrugged this off the other day, but I’ve been following everything that’s been going on with Martine. Can you talk about it?”

“Considering the magnitude of the allegations, I’ve been a little surprised with how slow-moving it’s been.”

“It’s only been a few weeks,” Jane says. “Plus, professional criminals usually aren’t stupid.”

Dread slithers up my spine. “That’s true.”

“Do you have to stay with Martine until the scandal is settled?” she asks. “Or just until the team feels like they’re in a better situation reputationally?”

“It’s up to them,” I tell her. “It’s technically a three-month contract, but they can extend it.”

Jane nods. “Right. Well. I guess I’ll hold out hope that they keep you around until the race in Austin.”

I can’t hold back my laughter. “Jane, that’s months away! Besides, you have Wes’s number now. You can go straight to the source.”

“Speaking of,” Jane says pointedly. “Tell me every single thing about Wesley Fitzwilliam Grant.”

I groan and she laughs. “I’m not sure if this matters, but I wholeheartedly approve.”

“Only because he’s currently babysitting your children.”

“For free,” she says, her tone bright. “I know I don’t actually know him, but he seems great.”

I open my mouth to tell her how obnoxious he is, how he’s a cocky asshole, how he’s said things so disrespectful to me that most men would be fired in an instant. But. But. He worried about my feet when I was living in heels around the track. He advocated for Lu. He sent me an apology breakfast. He stopped me from walking straight into traffic.

Not to mention how I had the best orgasm of my life with him.

But that is information my sister does not need to know. The last time we gossiped about my love life, I still thought sex was uncomfortable, violating, and misogynistic, and she was telling me the fix was communication and the right partner. It turns out she was right—but I very seriously doubt she would be understanding about the kind of sex I need. So I say, “Wes has his moments.”

Our seafood platter arrives, presented beautifully on two tiered stands and served with an assortment of side dishes. Jane oohs and aahs as she snaps photos, then we dig in, comparing notes on it all. When there’s a natural lull in the conversation, I start to ask Jane if she thinks we could plan a real sisters’ vacation, but she says, “Just so you know, Todd told me what happened at the conference.”

My stomach drops. I’m sure he had a grand time telling her all about how I misinterpreted things and went into hysterics.

“I wish you had said something,” she says. It’s obvious she’s disappointed I didn’t—as if that’s fair. As if she would have even listened to my perspective. I’ve tried to make her see how awful Todd is before, but her responses have included ignoring me, defending him, or telling me I got it wrong.

But she did find a way to book this trip, even when Todd was against it. So perhaps things have changed between them?

“Does that mean you suspect something?” I ask.