Style // 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙇𝙚𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙧𝙘

2.

Friday

Monte Carlo sweeps by the polished passenger window, accompanied with 80s music quietly playing in the background. Charles' presence, despite the heavy darkness of the night weighing on our shoulders, beams brighter than life its self next to me. All he's doing is driving, the wheel swishing under his grip every time we turn. We haven't spoke much, I'm unsure where to start with him. Our conversation can start anywhere, from 'Has anyone managed to beat Max Verstappen yet?' to 'Why did you lie about not wanting to see me again?'.

I exhale through my nose, averting my gaze to the glossy windscreen. The stone, cream walls of the Fairmont Hotel greet my tired yet wide open eyes. I frown, looking back out my passenger window, the track limit chase the wheels of the car. Is he taking us around the track? I snap a look at him, catching a downwards smirk on his face. His eyebrows raise, using both hands to navigate the hairpin at a much slower, more controlled pace than an F1 car.

"You couldn't help yourself, can you?" I ask, causing him to chuckle lowly.

"You agreed to come on a drive." He points out, smoothly changing gears.

"A drive, not a lap." I correct him, looking back out the passenger window.

Panic settles for a second. Charles Leclerc lapping his home track, in a principality where there's more F1 fans than there are non-F1 fans. Anyone could see us, and capture the moment with a click of their phone. Post it to social media, neither of us would hear the end of it. After taking a deep breath, I take a proper look around. The empty paths, the barren roads. Who's around? No one. Just us.

"You've hardly spoke to me tonight." Charles says, looking at me as we come to a red light.

"I don't really know what to say." I admit, looking at my lap.

"How's work, are you still a hygienist?" He asks, relaxing in his chair. "Are you still doing cover work abroad?"

"It's not really a job I can just walk away from." I shrug, unsure how to explain it to him. "I spent a month in the UK in April, they're always a weird bunch."

Every now and then, I get the opportunity to go 'abroad' for work. It's sort of for study, to make up CPD hours I'm required to do. As a dental professional, you have to keep your knowledge 'up to date', meaning you do a certain amount of studying per year. That's not what I do it for though. I do it to get the f*ck out of Monaco when we split up, so I can be as far away as possible.

"You're from the UK, that includes you." Charles teases.

"Well, yeah, but I don't pay to have jewels permanently stuck to my teeth." I scoff, remembering a few of my patients that I saw. "Or wiggle a tooth so much that it splits clean in half."

"That happens?" Charles asks in shock, shaking his head when I nod. "Jewels, why?"

"Fashion, apparently." I don't agree with it, but I can't tell people what's cosmetically right and wrong. "What about you, how's the racing going?"

"Not bad." He says bluntly, nodding his head sideways. "Max is winning."

"As always." I chuckle.

Good lord. Throw me out the car already.

"You've won a few races though!" I add, desperate to dig myself out the hole I've created. "You and Carlos cleared Bahrain by miles."

"I'm surprised you watched that race."

Bahrain was the day after we had the huge argument that ended it all. Every bone in my body was rooting for Charles to crash that day. To fuck up the start of the season, for Max to follow his usual ways and finish the race miles ahead of everyone else. None of that happened. Charles won. Me and Stella watched him lift the trophy and spray champagne all over the two drivers stood on the podium with him. Whilst I was weeping into a Crunchie bar, Stella was violently crushing a bag of chilli heatwave Doritos.

"I'm surprised you text me tonight." I reply, looking down at my lap. "You made your intentions very clear."

"You know I never mean it." He excuses himself.

"But you still said it." I'm quick to respond, tilting my head as I look at him. "I thought that was it forever."

You could slice the tension in the air with a butter knife. Charles abruptly clears his throat as he pulls away, the car's engine intertwining with the harmonious night. I keep myself to myself as we turn off of the track, cruising along the sea front. Charles drives into a bay facing the ocean, which looks invisible as it blends with the horizon. The Pista goes to sleep, the whirring dispersing into the night.

"We both said it, not just me." He finally defends himself, unclipping his seatbelt.

I did say it back to him. Out of spite. Of course I want him in my life. What's my life without this 'I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you' cycle we have on? It may have ruined my love life for the last few years, and I might have pushed away several people perfectly capable of loving me, but I can't help it. It's like a drug, one that I can't escape. A reoccurring addiction. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be if Dad didn't take me to one of his F2 races. If we didn't go to meet the drivers and fall in love at first sight.

Whatever I thought 'love at first sight' was back then.

"I only said it because you did." I mumble, feeling like a naughty child.

Charles stares at me silently, turning his body to face me. "Were you going to miss me?"

My lack of verbal excuses makes my answer evident. Silence answers better than words, annoyingly. It's straight forward, when I'm not witty enough to hide my tracks with a lie. I would have missed Charles, there's no point in keeping that awkward confession to myself. He's one of those people who are glued into your life, that keep coming and going. It's the vicious cycle I don't like. The one that makes trusting potential boyfriends and girlfriends harder than it should be.

"Not really, I'm used to it by now." I hum, my ears beginning to tingle again. "It's the same old."

"What?" Charles frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Oh come on, it's so obvious." I grin, shaking my head. "You always text me when your season is finished, and cut things off when you go back."

Charles' jaw drops, his lips parting as he's caught off guard and completely dumbfounded. You'd think I just accused him of a heartless crime, but in reality I've just outed him. And myself. It's been his routine since starting F1; probably enjoys the thrill of walking onto the paddock as a single man, so everyone can freely swoon over him. I was never taken onto the paddock, a dream younger me has had to let go of. I was obsessed with being a WAG, which might've triggered our first of many break ups.

"Wow!" He chuckles, looking away from me and at the horizon in front of us.

"What, it's true?" I shrug, laughing with him.

"Ok, I'll forget about the time you broke up with me before university." Charles argues back.

"That's different!" I reply, still laughing at him.

"As if!"

I'm glad that we've started joking about it rather than actually picking on one another. How weird that we both accept each other's faults like it's nothing? We actually think it's a smart idea to do that to one another?

I cover my mouth as I yawn, a whole day's worth of work plus a late night catching up on me. The car falls silent again as we stare out at the seafront, both of us denying our exhaustion. Again, we're clinging onto as much time as we can, knowing that this will all be over within a few months; we'll go back to being confused, hurt, frustrated and whatever other feelings you experience when you break up with someone. Except, we'll never officially date.

"Do you want me to take you back home?" He asks, looking at the time. "I can see you again?"

"Yeah, but don't rev your engine or do anything flashy." I tell him, pulling my seatbelt back on. "I'm still living with Stella."

"My biggest fan." Charles mocks my best friend, starting the engine up again. "What have you told her that's made her hate me?"

Everything.