Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

7

Lizzie Jones

We land in Monaco late Thursday evening, around 8 PM, and honestly, I'm not about that wake-up call life. But nope, Charles decides to be my personal human alarm clock, flicking me in the side of my head like some kind of playful but lowkey savage. I groan, peeling off my sunglasses to find him already packing his stuff, looking way too chill for someone trying to get off a private jet.

"Come on, Liz, speed it up," he says, casually striding past me like I'm moving in slow-mo or something.

I scramble to shove everything into my carry-on, half-dragging my tired self after him. When I catch up, he throws an arm around my shoulder like it's no big deal, leading me towards baggage claim. Cute, but also very "big brother vibes."

Then — BAM — we hit the paparazzi wall. White lights everywhere, cameras clicking like a swarm of mutant mosquitoes. It's like the paparazzi version of The Purge, but instead of chaos, there's just a lot of flashing and very aggressive clicking. I'm basically being photoshopped into every gossip website before I even get my bags.

We barely make it through the swarm, letting our team snag the bags and jet off to the hotel. I slump into the passenger seat of the Ferrari waiting outside — because yeah, Charles is driving us through his hometown like a local celeb — and I shut my eyes, trying to catch a few seconds of chill before race week officially smacks me in the face.

"I'll catch you later, hey?" Charles calls as I step off the elevator onto my floor.

"High School Musical marathon at yours? You get the ice cream, I'll bring the cookie dough," I remind him with a grin.

He smiles — a real one, not the "I'm just being polite" kind — and I'm hit with the warm fuzzies. This is our tradition every first night in Monaco, since the day he introduced me to his family. I still remember that moment like it was yesterday — him calling me his 'best friend,' and for once, feeling wanted. Because let's be real, my secondary school friends? Total fake AF. I hated them all. It was just me and my loner vibes until Charles came along, and honestly, Kate and one other person were pretty much the only real ones in my life.

I spent that week with the Leclercs last year, wandering around Monaco and soaking up the Grand Prix atmosphere — kinda surreal now that I'm here as part of the circus.

Walking to my room, I glance at the door opposite, wondering if it's going to be the same setup as last time. But nah, I shake the thought off and step inside. My bags are already here — bless whoever's on hotel duty — and I immediately head for the shower.

I strip off my black sweats and jump under the warm water, letting it cascade over me. Showers are supposed to be soothing, right? But honestly, for me, they're like an emotional trigger — all the pressure I've been bottling up suddenly crashes down like a tidal wave.

This race means everything. I have to get another pole position. Have to. Everyone's watching, ready to judge every tiny mistake like it's the end of the world. Brake too early? Internet meltdown. Brake too late? Instant meme. I'm panicking just thinking about it.

I run through the checklist in my head — gotta start working out more, especially my core and neck; must go running (ugh); book a physio session; eat less junk (goodbye, midnight snacks); practice clutch control; fix my diet; and look prettier because apparently that's part of the job now.

Basically, I need to be a better version of myself. Like, yesterday.

And then I just... break. I sit down in the shower, letting the water mix with my tears as I breathe hard, trying but failing to hold it together.

Loneliness hits me hard — that same lonely feeling I had back in secondary school when everyone thought my life was perfect. Spoiler alert: it wasn't. The only time I felt seen was in math class with Lando. He got me in a way no one else did. But after that fight? Everything shifted. I lost something important, and I'm still not sure what it was.

Meeting Charles was like finding that missing piece, but still... my mind keeps drifting back to Lando and what he said earlier.

After wiping my tears, I remind myself to stop spiraling — no panic attacks, please. I check the time and decide I have enough to slow my thoughts, maybe find some peace.

So I slip into a mini skirt and corset, grab some black heels, and throw on my leather jacket like I'm about to walk a runway instead of just heading out.

Phone and key card in hand, I'm ready to go to the one place that always calms me down — the place I know best.

___________________________________________

After a ten-minute walk through the glittery-but-still-slightly-sketchy streets of Monaco — you know, the kind of place where a croissant costs more than your rent back home — I finally spot the little bar I was hunting for. The neon sign flickers "OPEN" like it's trying to seduce me in. I push open the door, and the faint smell of old whiskey mixed with broken dreams hits me right in the face. Perfect.

I slide onto a stool at the bar and order something way too strong to actually taste good, but hey, if it burns enough, maybe it'll burn the thoughts too. The bartender just slides it over with zero judgment, probably used to seeing a parade of lost souls in corsets and leather jackets. I hand over my card without looking, already feeling the night's weight settling on my shoulders.

Some indie track hums softly from the speakers — the kind of music that's supposed to make you feel something deep but just makes me want to nap. I rest my head in my hands, quietly mouthing the words, hoping no one notices my red, puffy eyes. Tears are doing their sneaky little dance behind my eyelids, and I keep wiping them away like it's some weird new skincare routine.

Honestly? I wish it was socially acceptable to rock up to bars in sweats. This corset is basically medieval torture disguised as fashion. And I'm way too drained to slap on any makeup — I'm sure I look like I got in a fight with a blender and lost.

Suddenly, someone plops down beside me. I glance to my left, sighing because who else but him?

"Drinking your problems away, I see," Lando says, his voice as tired as his expression. He's clearly on a mission to get as wasted as possible, already buying shots like it's a competition.

"Stalking me, I see," I shoot back, but honestly, I don't have the energy for this back-and-forth again tonight. He just hums, grabs his shots, and holds one out to me.

"No thanks," I say, trying to keep it short.

"Just take them, Lizzie," he insists, that annoying grin tugging at his lips. Well, free drinks are free drinks, so I cave and down the shot with a grimace.

He raises his glass to clink mine. "To old friends."

"Well, that's one way to put it," I mutter, eyeing him like he just cracked some weird joke only he finds funny.

Lando sets his glass down and finally faces me fully. Joggers, hoodie, the ultimate "I give up but still look cool" outfit. Honestly, this casual vibe suits him more than I want to admit. I scoff. "What's on your mind, Jones? You're more fucking stroppy than usual."

"Why would I tell you?" I snap, immediately regretting the edge in my voice.

"Because I know you."

That stops me. Wait — what? He repeats, softer this time: "I know you, Lizzie. More than you know yourself."

The words hang between us, and suddenly, I'm not sure if this is some heartfelt moment or just another game. But for once, the walls I've built start to crack a little.

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always listening to Taylor while writing this