Chasing Daisy

The commentators were comparing him to Ayrton Senna, one of the greatest drivers of our time. There’s no word of such comparisons now. I wonder if the British press still have their knives out?
    I could go and see him . . . If Holly is right, Luis won’t be out on the town with the lads. I wonder if he’d let me in? He may just slam the door in my face. Only one way to find out. I leap off the bed full of determination and grab my door key. I don’t bother to change out of my work clothes or check my reflection.
    Luis is staying in a room three floors above me. I run up the stairs instead of taking the lift and I’m slightly out of breath by the time I get there.
    He answers after twenty seconds, opening the door and staring at me with a confused frown.
    ‘Hello,’ he says.
    ‘Luis, hi.’ I try to catch my breath and give him a hopeful look. ‘Can I come in?’
    He stands back to let me pass, not speaking.
    His room is a tip. Clothes are strewn across the floor and living area. A quick glance through to the bathroom and I can see dirty towels discarded on the floor. The television is blaring out at high volume.
    Luis doesn’t apologise for the mess as he leads me to the sofa. I pick up his helmet and team overalls and place them on the coffee table, then perch on the edge of an armchair and wait while he digs around down the side of the sofa. Eventually his hand emerges with the remote control. He points it and turns the volume down on the TV before leaning back on the sofa and putting his feet up on the coffee table. He doesn’t look at me.
    ‘How are you?’ I ask.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ he hits back.
    ‘I wanted to see how you are,’ I reply, flummoxed.
    ‘Why should you care?’ His dark eyes meet mine and I’m taken aback by the intensity of them.
    I glance away at the flickering, soundless television for a moment before looking back at him. ‘I do care.’
    He scratches his beard. ‘I thought you’d left for good.’
    ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
    He rests his head down on the back of the sofa and takes a deep breath.
    ‘You don’t look well, Luis,’ I say eventually.
    He shrugs.
    ‘What are you going to do about it?’ I press.
    He shrugs again. ‘Nothing.’
    ‘You can’t keep hurting yourself like this,’ I say. ‘You have to forgive yourself.’
    ‘Have you forgiven me?’ he bites back.
    ‘Yes!’ I exclaim. ‘There wasn’t really anything to forgive! It wasn’t your fault!’
    His face crumbles and I stare on in shock as I realise he’s about to cry.
    ‘Oh, God, Luis, I’m sorry.’ I get up from my chair and go to sit next to him on the sofa.
    ‘No, no.’ He puts his hand out to wave me away, but I grab it and hold it tightly. ‘Please,’ he begs, turning his face away.
    ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I say again, quietly and sympathetically.
    ‘Don’t!’ He chokes and I pull him to me, wrapping my arms around his neck as he buries his face into me and starts to sob. My throat swells and tears well up in my eyes because his pain is hurting me, too. I can’t let myself think of Will, otherwise I’ll be in an even worse state than he is, and I need to be strong for him right now.
    Eventually he pulls away.
    ‘Do you want a tissue?’ I ask belatedly, digging around in my pocket for one. I never go anywhere without them these days.
    ‘Thanks,’ he answers groggily, taking it from me and loudly blowing his nose. I edge away to give us both some space.
    ‘ Nossa Senhora ,’ he sighs, leaning back on the sofa and staring up at the ceiling. ‘You didn’t go out tonight?’ He turns to look at me, his eyes red and still a little teary.
    I shake my head. ‘No.’
    ‘Holly?’
    ‘She’s with Simon.’
    He nods and looks up at the ceiling again.
    ‘It’s strange being back,’ I comment.
    It’s a while before he answers. ‘Where did you go?’
    ‘New York. To see my parents.’
    ‘How was it?’ He glances at me.
    ‘Awful.’ Pause. ‘How are your family?’
    ‘Good. Well, yeah . . .’ He hesitates.
    ‘What?’
    ‘No, nothing.’ He brushes me off.
    ‘Tell me. How’s your mother?’
    ‘Um . . . All this . . .’ He waves his hand around the room. ‘You know, it’s bothering her,’ he says with difficulty.
    ‘What do you mean? The racing is bothering her?’
    ‘Everything. It’s all bothering her.’
    I’m confused. ‘Has she been reading about you in the papers?’
    ‘Mmm, yeah.’ He sits up straighter and looks