𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐠; oscar piastri ✔

PART TWO

Word count; 2,393

Mirabella

— May 22nd, 2023. Miami, Florida.

Approaching the breakfast bar, I kept my head low, telling myself I was more anxious over what I'd chose to eat, not who I saw when I turned around. I filled my plate with various pastries - most of which I despised for their pungent taste - and poured myself a glass of apple juice from a dispenser, all the while glancing through the corners of my eyes, waiting to see someone familiar, a reminder of the night before.

I took a seat at a small table near a pillar, almost in a secret attempt to conceal myself. My eyelids wouldn't have fought as hard to stay open, however, if it wasn't for the aspect of seeing him again, proving reality was reality and five hours ago wasn't just a dream. Each face that emerged towards the breakfast bar I studied and each time my shoulders sank in disappointment.

Only, there he was.

Fifteen minutes after nibbling on my pain aux raisins, he appeared, eyes heavier than mine, hands lacking a purpose if not for locating a plate and food. I wondered if he had seen me but then his feet were heading in my direction, his dish clinking onto the table; two slices of bread and two small condimental jams, nothing else. He bit into the bread, not bothering to add the jam, and blew out a sigh, leaning back in his chair. I couldn't help but laugh.

"That's the best thing I've ever ate." He muttered, eyelids briefly falling shut.

I chuckled again, continuing with my own food as he delt with his. Thousands of questions poured through my mind, matching the quickening beat in my chest, and I made my best to surpress all of it; the night before, after ending the call with Carla, I responded to his message, though he hadn't seen it at the time and I hadn't checked if he had since - or if it was even real.

He dropped his half-eaten bread onto his plate, dragging his palms down his face, releasing a small grunt.

"What is it?" I probed carefully, unsure of my own words.

"I forgot." He took his hands away from his cheeks, slumping against his chair. "I'm so stupid."

"What?"

"Drug testing." He eyed someone as they passed by, folding his arms. "I've never done it this close to a race before."

I swallowed hard, his words a reminder, a testimony that this really was him.

"Today?" I asked.

He shrugged, "Sometimes they do it, sometimes they don't. It's the whole point. Catch you off guard."

"I'm sure they won't." I affirmed meekly, the best I could give.

He nodded, picking up his toast again, and I realised his leg had begun to bob relentlessly beneath the table. I craved to tell him more - reassure him - but I had no idea how. I had no idea how his life worked. Glancing at my lap, I picked at my fingernails, trying once more to keep down the inclination to spit out everything in my mind.

I just couldn't.

"Why didn't you tell me you were a formula 1 driver?" I spat out, still staring at my fingers.

"Because I was fuckin' high." He chuckled, his response automatic. "Why didn't you tell me you were a model?"

I glared at him, not yet realising that he had examined my Instagram as I had his. Recognising my lack of amusement, he sat forward, leaning his crossed arms on the counter.

"Look," He cleared his throat. "I wasn't in the right mind yesterday. I probably said some things that I shouldn't have, I don't know. I can't really remember a lot. But whatever I did say shouldn't be relayed." He looked at me, the first time of this whole monologue. "You don't have to come to Monaco, I understand if you don't want to-"