Ten years ago, they chose different futures. Now a Formula 1 race in Monaco throws them back together—and nothing between them is settled.
Excerpt from Driven Together by Neil S. Plakcy
I heard a familiar laugh.
It stopped me cold. I knew that laugh the way I knew my own heartbeat, warm and genuine and slightly self-deprecating. I turned slowly, scanning the crowd of people in team uniforms and expensive casual wear.
And there he was.
Jonathan Hirsch stood about thirty feet away, talking to someone I recognized as his race engineer. He looked older, obviously; we both did. But the years had been kind to him. The gangly college student had filled out into a man, broader through the shoulders, more confident in his bearing. His hair was shorter now, styled in a way that looked effortless but took a master stylist. He was wearing jeans and a team polo that fit him perfectly.
But what struck me most was how he carried himself. This wasn’t the Jonathan I knew in college, who’d been grateful for a chance to prove himself. This was someone who’d learned how to take up space without apology, someone who’d earned his place through years of discipline and stubborn persistence. There was an edge to him now, a quiet intensity that spoke of time spent being underestimated and refusing to stay that way.
When he smiled at something his engineer said, though, it was the same smile that had once made me forget how to breathe.
I should have walked away. Focused on the other drivers I could interview, the team principals who would give me better quotes, the stories that didn’t involve excavating a decade-old relationship.
Instead, I found myself walking toward him.
He saw me coming when I was about ten feet away. His expression didn’t change at first. Just a tiny hesitation, like a gear slipping for half a second before catching again. Then he blinked. A slow inhale. His knuckles tightened around the clipboard he was holding.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The noise of the paddock carried on—hydraulic jacks, radios crackling, someone shouting about tire pressures—but it all felt muted. Like the world knew better than to intrude.
He walked toward me.
Not fast. Careful steps, like he was approaching a wild animal.
”Waldo?”
It had been a long time since anyone other than my parents used that name. He was quiet. No smile.
Up close, he looked almost the same. Just older around the eyes, jaw sharper, hair touched with a little silver at the temples. The kind of changes life carves into you slowly, without permission.
”You’re wearing a suit,” he said.
”You went to Berlin,” I said.
A beat.
”You didn’t ask me not to.”
A breath of a smile, and then it died.
”What are you…” He glanced at the press pass hanging around my neck, understanding dawning. “You’re covering this?”
”Apex Magazine. Last-minute assignment.”
”Apex.” He let out a low whistle. “That’s… wow. Congratulations.”
”Thanks.” I wasn’t sure if he meant it, or if I wanted him to.
His engineer had drifted away. The paddock kept moving around us, but it felt like we were standing inside a pressure bubble.
”Congratulations on finally getting your shot with Meridian Racing,” I said. “This must be everything you’ve worked for.”
”In a way.”
Silence. Heavy, shared, dangerous.
”Ten years and that’s it?” he said. “Like we sat in different classrooms, not…”
”Not what?” I said. “Not loved each other? Not burned it down?”
His jaw tightened. “You broke up with me.”
”You let me.”
He blinked. “That’s not fair.”
”No,” I said. “It isn’t.”
Someone called his name. He didn’t look away from me.
”Still following the sport?” he asked.
”Part of the job now, apparently.” I gestured at the controlled chaos around us. “I watched Bahrain. You clawed your way from the back row to the podium.”
”Finally got a car that doesn’t break down every other weekend,” he said carefully. ”Meridian’s been good to me. They believed in me when other teams didn’t.”
”Must feel good to have people believe in your potential instead of just your connections,” I said, and immediately regretted it. The words were a reflex. A shield.
His eyebrows lifted. Surprised, but not angry. Maybe hurt.
”You always did cut straight to the heart of things,” he said softly.
Another beat. Ten years of unsent emails, undialed calls, things neither of us had the courage to ask.
”You’re here to write a story,” he said. Calm. Too calm. “Fine. Write it. But don’t pretend this is anything else.”
”I’m not pretending anything.” I swallowed hard. “I’m doing my job.”
He swallowed too, like it didn’t go down easily. “And if I don’t want you here?”
”Then don’t talk to me,” I said. “Give me the press-release version. I’ve read up on you. You’re good at that.”
He flinched.
For a heartbeat, I hated myself.
For a heartbeat, I wanted to touch him.
Neither of us moved.
Finally, he nodded, the professional mask snapping into place. “Welcome to Meridian. Someone will get you a team badge.”
”I should let you get back to prep,” I muttered. The ground beneath my feet felt uncertain. “I’m sure you have better things to do than catch up with me.”
”Waldo.”
His hand brushed my arm. Light, quick, like he wasn’t sure I’d let him.
”I’m glad you’re here,” he said, quieter now. Honest in a way that made it harder to breathe. “Really. Maybe we could…” He hesitated. “Are you staying in Monaco?”
”The Novotel in Monte Carlo.”
”There’s a reception tonight. Team sponsors, some media. Very casual.” He chose his words like defusing a bomb. “If you want to come, I could get you an invitation.”
Professional courtesy? Personal truce? I couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter. I needed the access. I needed… something.
”That would be great,” I said. “Good background material.”
”Right.” His smile was smaller now. Realer. “It would be nice to talk properly. Catch up.”
”Jonathan!” someone called from across the paddock. “Interviews in five!”
”I have to go.” He stepped back, but not before squeezing my shoulder, just once. Two seconds. Enough to light up every nerve but not enough to mean anything.
Or too much.
”But Waldo?” he added.
”Yeah?”
”It’s good to see you.”
He walked away before I could answer.
I stood there, heart pounding, exhaust fumes in my lungs, notebook heavy in my hand.
Story first, I told myself.
Everything else could wait.
But as I watched him disappear into the media center, I wasn’t sure that was true anymore.
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