Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

16

The conversation with Lando was... a disaster. Like, I thought for a split second being back at the villa would magically erase all the bad vibes and we'd be BFFs again. Nope. We're right back to awkward stares and invisible walls between us. He probably hates me now, or maybe he never stopped. Honestly, who even knows? When he said he'd wait for me, I actually believed it. That was me, the naive clown of the century.

Dinner was a whole other saga. We always glam up for the first night here—it's a vibe, a tradition or whatever. So naturally, I spent way too long deciding what to wear, and ended up with a red strapless dress that screamed "I'm here, but I'm also kinda stressed." Black heels to try and look like I had my life together, and my hair just chilling loose because, well, effort.

Kate finally comes out of the bathroom looking like she just stepped off a runway in this long pink dress that's basically a mood. She spins, all carefree, and drops a bomb:

"Have you noticed anything about Owen?"

My brain is stuck on repeat. "My brother? Um... he's failing his classes, socially awkward, and lowkey has an uneven jawline."

She's serious now, looking at me like I'm missing something crucial. "No, like, have you seen him looking at me? Or, like, anything?"

Cue me putting my hands on her shoulders like, "Nope. Not today. Not ever. I'm done with your Owen obsession." I laughed to cover how weird this all felt, then ghosted her to the stairs.

We finally get to dinner fashionably late (because, Kate and I both know getting ready is basically a sport), and what do you know? Two seats left. Naturally, Kate swoops and plops down next to Owen like it's her destiny, leaving me the last seat—right next to Lando.

Cue the internal screaming.

Trying to adult, I sit next to him and glance over. He's staring dead ahead at Max, looking like I'm some awkward ghost. No "Hey," no "What's up," just nothing.

"So, you did come to dinner," I say, hoping for a spark.

"Yeah, I guess I did," he mutters. Like, seriously? This isn't a breakup movie scene. Why is he acting like I ghosted him for six years?

"I like your shirt."

"Thanks." And that's it. Just a plain 'thanks,' like I'm bothering him by existing. He turns his face away like I'm a pop quiz he didn't study for.

I'm sitting there, swallowed by silence, watching Kate sneak me a look like "Are you okay?" I shake my head, telling her "Yeah, all good" even though my insides feel like a tornado.

We don't say a word to each other for the rest of the dinner. Not a peep. Not even passive-aggressive eye rolls. Just nothing.

Finally, I bail early and make a beeline for my room. The bathroom becomes my safe zone. I sink into the bathtub and let it all out. Tears flow like a bad Netflix drama, and soon I'm full-on sobbing, head in hands.

I've really messed this up.

Why didn't I just pick Lando from the start? Why did I have to mess with Charles and now fake this fake relationship? I feel like I'm lying to myself, to everyone. Racing doesn't feel like me anymore. No wins, no podiums, no fire. Every time I say "I am a Formula 1 driver," it sounds like a joke, like I'm pretending. Right now? Everything is just... fucked.

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I haul myself out of the bath, dripping like some sad, soggy mess, then throw on a bikini and wrap myself in a towel—because priorities, right? I sneak through the villa like a stealthy ninja, avoiding the lounge where a couple of people are murmuring, probably too tired to give a damn about me sneaking out. The rest must've already crashed because, honestly, who stays up this late?

I plunge into the pool, the cold water shocking my skin awake. I start swimming laps like I'm training for the Olympics or just trying to drown the thoughts racing through my head. It's pitch black except for the soft glow from the kitchen window when I finally stop, resting my hands on the pool's edge.

Then I see a shadow sitting on the deck chairs. Squinting harder, heart suddenly doing a dumb little flip—it's him. Lando.

He slowly gets up, swaying a bit like a drunk toddler, and shuffles over to me.

"Lizzie Jones," he slurs. How is he already drunk? Dinner was, like, two hours ago. I knew his drinking was a problem, but damn, this is next-level.

I climb out and grab his shoulders, steering him away from the pool edge before he turns into a human slip'n'slide. We flop down opposite each other on the deck chairs, the kitchen light casting just enough glow to highlight his tired eyes and jawline—the same jaw I used to think was the cutest thing ever.

"Lando, how much have you had?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

He looks away, like he's trying to hide something. Then he blurts out, "Charles doesn't deserve you, Lizzie."

My heart does a weird skip and my throat tightens. What the hell? He's not even looking at me—it's like he's talking to some ghost.

"W-what do you mean?" I stammer, totally thrown off.

Suddenly, he blurts, "Do you wanna play frisbee?"

Wait. What?

"Lando, what are you talking about?" I ask, confusion twisting my brain.

He stares into my eyes, and our knees brush against each other—this should feel electric, but instead, I feel a million miles away.

"Can you call Max?" he suddenly asks, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

I start to get up, ready to call it a night and deal with this mess tomorrow. But before I can move, he grabs my hand, holding on tight. His eyes meet mine as he quietly says, "I'm sorry, Lizzie."

My chest feels like it's been stomped on. "I think it's too late for that now, Lando," I say softly, knowing deep down he's right. We're stuck in this weird limbo—friends, enemies, unrequited love, strangers. It's exhausting, and honestly, it's gotta end.

I head for the kitchen door, one last look over my shoulder at him. He's turned away, head down like he's carrying the weight of the world on those slumped shoulders.

Then—

"Lizzie?" A voice breaks the silence and I jump.

"Max?"

He's standing there in his pajamas, squinting like he just woke up from a nap. Max always reminded me of Kate—loyal to a fault, always looking out for Lando.

I glance at the stairs, something bubbling in my chest, and stop him before he can disappear outside.

"Has Lando talked about me at all in the past six months?" I ask, desperate for some clue, some sign.

Max sighs and looks at me like I just asked him to solve world hunger. "Lizzie, he hasn't really talked about anyone. You kinda broke his heart. Again."

Ouch. It hits me like a punch straight to the gut. I know Max is just trying to protect Lando, but yeah—this whole mess? It's both our faults. Right?