𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐄 ~ | 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘓𝘦𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘤

XXXII

Chapter Thirty-Two:

~ Messy bun, messy life, and Lionel Messi ~

Evie's POV

P4 was not a bad finish for me.

Of course, I would never be truly happy with myself until I stood on that top step, but at least I didn't feel like I had let everyone down quite so much as the last race.

I couldn't say the same for Charles though.

His engine had given out on lap 56. I remembered passing by him as he pulled himself free of the smoking car as the yellow flag signal came on. I could tell he was pissed.

But what made me worry most about him was that I knew he wasn't pissed at the car so much as himself. He always did this. Every time something went wrong, he would only blame himself. I could see it in his eyes, that familiar expression of defeat and self-loathing.

But of course, when he had a good race then it was all due to the team, the car, the tires. Never to his own skill.

I supposed I may have admired him for it, in a strange sort of way. His drive to always be the best, to never accept anything less than perfection. But he was too hard on himself.

Sighing, I leaned back against the pillows, looking around the hotel room. It was nicer than most I stayed in, with a view overlooking the city. I supposed it was one of the perks of racing for Ferrari.

When he came home, he had said three words to me, grabbed his coat, and left. Just like that. I would have felt hurt or angry If I hadn't been used to it by now.

"Don't wait up." He had said as he passed by me.

Half of me wanted to say 'Fuck him I'm going to sleep, he can deal with himself', but the other half told me 'He needs someone to take care of him'. I didn't know why, but I always found myself listening to that second voice.

So here I was, at, I checked my watch, 1:12am. Charles had been gone for nearly six hours. I was getting tired, and a little bored, but something deep inside me wouldn't let me sleep. It was the same thing that kept me up every time he was gone. The same thing that made me worry.

There was always a nagging little voice in my head saying 'What if something happened to him?' and as much as I tried to shut it up, it wouldn't go away. I knew it was irrational.

I also knew that there were thousands of reasons for me to not give a single fuck about what happened to him. He was an asshole, a self-centered prick who only cared about himself and his stupid car. He didn't care about me, so why should I care about him.

But I did.

And I hated it.

I hated him.

The soft music playing in the background of the room seemed to echo my restlessness. I hummed along to the song, my pen moving across the page of my notebook. I'd always found that writing helped me sort through my thoughts, made them less jumbled. Even if I never shared them with anyone.

Where's my mind?

Where's my mind?

Where's my mind?

Billie Eilish's haunting voice filled the air as I absentmindedly doodled on my notepad. My mind drifting to somewhere far away.

Imagination was so beautiful. I could run away from my own thoughts inside my very mind. I could be anywhere, with anyone, doing anything. I could be happy, or sad, or angry. I could be anyone I wanted to be.