Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

15

Lando Norris

"Hey."

Her voice was quiet, but I caught that little crack underneath—the kind you only hear when someone's trying really hard not to break. She sounded nervous. Like she'd swallowed a bug or was about to confess to stealing the last slice of pizza. But why the hell would she be nervous? She had zero reason to be scared of me.

Me? I was a damn mess.

Inside, I was a wreck. Every time I looked at her, it felt like someone ripped the air out of my lungs. Lizzie—she'd thrown away everything we had, like it was some kind of expired merch nobody wanted. And here I was, fronting like I didn't care, drowning it all in shots, random hookups, and pushing myself harder on track. I was doing well—like really well—but that miserable itch in my gut? It wasn't going anywhere.

Six months.

Half a year.

That's how long it's been since I last talked to her.

And now, here we are, stuck in the same goddamn kitchen full of memories that could choke you if you let them. She's standing there in basically nothing—red bikini, hair still dripping from the pool—and I'm trying so hard to pretend she's just another person. But the hardest part? Knowing she's pretending too. Pretending to be with Charles Leclerc, the guy I know she never really wanted. That's the real kick in the balls.

When she says "Hey" again, I force out a "Hey" back, trying to sound cool and confident, but it's a lie. I'm avoiding eye contact like I'm dodging an incoming missile. Still, my eyes keep wandering—on the counter where we once tried to bake something that ended up burning, on the fridge where those stupid magnets we put on together are still there, and maybe... just maybe... on her.

God, it hurts.

But I keep my voice steady, even if everything else is a mess inside. Because this moment? It's mine to survive. Or fail miserably at. 

6 years ago

"Lizzie?"

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clink of a spoon against a bowl. I spotted her sitting at the island, way too awake for 3 a.m., picking at a bowl of strawberries like they'd solve her insomnia.

It was the summer after GCSEs — the kind of summer that feels endless, and we were holed up in my family's villa in Italy like every year. Six weeks of sunshine, chaos, and too many inside jokes.

I rubbed my eyes and whispered her name again, a little louder. "Lizzie?"

She glanced up, blinking like a confused owl. "Lando? What are you doing up? It's—" she checked her watch like it'd suddenly grown hands, "3 in the morning."

"Well, I could ask you the exact same question." I slid onto the stool beside her, stealing a strawberry with my fork before she could say no.

She didn't answer. Just stared at the fruit like it was the most mysterious thing in the world. I knew something was keeping her up, and if I had to cheer her up with some dumb joke or ridiculous dare, I'd do it.

"How much money would I need to pay you to blast a really embarrassing song at full volume for like, five seconds?" I blurted out, because obviously, that's how we roll.

She raised an eyebrow but didn't laugh yet. "Five pounds. And you have to buy me an ice cream tomorrow."

Deal sealed with a handshake that was way too serious for 3 a.m. She scrolled on her phone, finally picking a song. Then, with a grin that made the moonlight look jealous, she stood up.

"Are you sure you want to lose five pounds and a sweet treat, Mr. Norris?"

"Absolutely, Miss Jones."

She hit play.

Suddenly, the gummy bear song blasted through the speakers. Five seconds felt like an eternity of pure, embarrassing joy. I laughed so hard, I tipped off my chair, and she went down with me, both of us cracking up on the cold kitchen floor.

"Yo-you fell off your chair!" she gasped between giggles, while I clutched my arm, expecting a bruise the next day.

We stayed there for what felt like forever, wrapped up in ridiculous laughter and shared silence, before eventually dragging ourselves to the lounge with one sofa each.

Man, everything was just better when I was with Lizzie. Even the middle-of-the-night dumb shit.

Now

"Hey, how have you been?" she asks, all awkward and fumbling, reaching for a drink like she's trying to avoid an interrogation or a wrestling match with her own feelings.

I want to say I miss you, loud and messy, like it's the only truth left in this entire damn villa. But nah, that would be way too much, and honestly, what's happened between us is a damn chasm I can't just jump over.

"Good. You?" I keep it cool, but inside I'm screaming. This is only day one of what's probably gonna be a week of side-eye, awkward silences, and pretending we're strangers.

She takes a sip and nods, "Yeah, nice to have a week off. It's good to be back here."

Good? What does that even mean? Does she think about that ridiculous night in the kitchen six years ago? Doubt it. Probably forgot. She's probably just talking about the weather or how many steps it takes to get to the pool.

But holy shit — the air conditioning here is doing some serious work, because her nipples are making a cameo through that tiny bikini top. And me? I'm stuck behind the kitchen counter, doing the absolute most to hide a raging hard-on that's as stubborn as my F1 lap times.

You'd think after the parade of girls I've been with, my brain would be immune to this. But no. It's fucking Lizzie. The girl who wrecked me — the girl I've dreamed about since forever.

Who did she lose her virginity to anyway? Leclerc? Probably. Those two, inseparable, whether I like it or not. Six months in, and their relationship is basically cemented. I even had to delete Instagram because seeing them everywhere was like a punch to the soul.

"I guess. How's Charles?" Why the hell did I ask that? I'm already regretting it. But I can't help noticing her reaction—her eyebrows shoot up like I just asked if she wants to do karaoke on the spot.

She turns away, filling her cup like she's buying time. "Yeah, he's good. Just got offered a brand deal with Hugo Boss."

Of course he did. Mr. "Ferrari's golden boy" gets all the perks while I'm over here trying not to lose my mind.

Leclerc, the new face of Hugo Boss. Great.

"So it's going well, I assume?" I can't stop myself from asking, even though every word is like stepping on Legos.

She smiles — but it's not a real smile. It's the kind of smile that people wear when they're hiding the fact that their heart's a little cracked.

"We just had our six-month anniversary," she says softly.

I know that smile doesn't mean a damn thing. I'd know if it did.

The awkward silence hits like a ton of bricks, so I make an excuse to leave before I say something I'll regret.

"I'll see you at dinner?" she calls out just as I'm turning away.

God, I missed her voice — the way it used to make my heart race. But this girl tore me apart. Twice. And for once, I've gotta think about me.

"Maybe," I say, keeping it vague and safe, hoping distance will make the pain easier to swallow.