Turbulence [𝗠.𝗩.]

Monday, Free Day, November ♦

SPOTTED: Jessica Bond in public for the first time since the Brazil GP - seen below having lunch with her parents. - @F1Gossip_Guru

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LAS VEGAS
FREE DAY
NOVEMBER

Sighing heavily still hurts. Yawns hurt more. And in all truth, I'm most annoyed that I can't drive right now. At all.

Because my dad is a terrible driver.

"Mum, please drive us back after lunch." I complain as we sit down at a table.

Mum puts her hands up in a point-blank surrender and refusal. "Nope! Your dad hired the car. He drives it."

"What's wrong with your old dad driving you around, Jessy?" Dad asks as he sits between us at the circular metal table.

I roll my eyes before fixing him with a look, one that he laughs at. I'll be subjected to Dad's slow driving again after lunch, it seems. A small sigh of defeat leaves my chest as I lean back in the chair, looking around at the place I've been dragged out to. It's a small diner, with bright pop-red walls and white tiling. Stereotypical, yet somehow quite warm and inviting. The chairs - especially the ones we're on, are nice and cushioned. It's just the ugly red metal tables that kind of ruin it for me.

But I'm not going to complain too much, because the food smells divine. All-day breakfasts are being served, and the fresh egg smells lovely. I can just about hear the sizzling of meat behind the overlapping conversations of the busy patrons. As I try to lean back a little more to get a better view of the kitchen, my eyes snap to a person. With a phone. In hand.

Pointed at me.

Fuck.

I lean forward, letting my dad's towering form hide me giving my mum a silent pleading look. My need for privacy conflicts with the life I now lead, I know. But I just can't face the public scrutiny right now. I've seen enough of it online as it is. Those clickbait headlines have been too enticing for even me to ignore. And they're fucking about me.

A hand is placed on my shoulder; Dad's. I swallow the lump that's building in my throat as he gives me a knowing nod. I can do this. I'm just being this... not me. This person who can't cope with the fact that she's got to sit out and watch everyone else do the thing she loves the most.

With another sigh, I straighten my back and take a menu off Mum. It gives me a shield for a moment, to be able to reset my expression and find that confidence that's been thrown to the back of my mind by all of this. I grasp a piece of it: the words that helped me get out of the flaming wreck. And I breathe.

We spend a few minutes mulling over options. Dad picks the all-day breakfast because even though he'd already had a full English at the hotel, he's never one to turn down another cooked breakfast. Mum picks a modest toasted sandwich with a salad. I'm busy staring at the paninis. I can't decide between the simple cheese and ham one or the cheese and salami one. It sounds like a mini pizza. It's tempting. But it might end up tasting awful, so I'm not sure about risking it.

Fuck it, I think quietly, risk it for a biscuit.

"This." I say as Dad looks over at me. The menu is flat against the table now because fuck it, why should I be so nervous all of a sudden? I survived Spa. I survived Interlagos. I'm not letting this shit change me. With my only useful hand, I point to the panini as labelled in the menu. "Can you see if they can chuck some pizza sauce on it?"

"So you want to go to Subway." Dad's tone is pointed but layered with light-heartedness.

"I'll order a full pizza instead if you want—"